


House of M

by JayEz



Series: Fixing Spectre [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: (Slightly), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mallory, Bond-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, Gareth Mallory Needs A Hug, Hurt!James, James is not 25 anymore, M/M, MI6 Family Feels, Mallory-centric, Post-SPECTRE, SPECTRE Fix-It, Trans Character, Unconventional Families, Unreliable Narrator, papa!M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5883664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The merger may be complete, but Gareth Mallory has more problems than ever: ungrateful agents, nagging superiors, and spies behaving like pre-schoolers, to name but a few. Gareth wonders if it’s time to change his tune to get his agency in line… </p><p>Meanwhile James has to fight demons of his own – an ageing body that refuses to heal as fast as it used to.</p><p>
  <em>COMPLETE.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emerging Problems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merlenhiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my dearest sister, who believed in this verse enough to bet part I would reach 1,000 kudos (I'm still in awe that it did *cheers*). She wished for something M-centric since she loves papa!M, and this is what my Muse came up with. 
> 
> Endless thanks to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya), who has returned as my wonderful beta!

“How're things with the birds?” his father asks every single time they talk, without fail. 

“I'm the head of MI6, sir, I have no time to go chasing skirts,” is Gareth's reply, always. 

His mother would have been proud, he muses. Proud that he landed on his feet when a bullet tore the rug from underneath his feet and stole every chance to stay in the field from him forever. She would have understood why he attacked his desk job as if files and forms were enemy soldiers, despite the strain it put on his marriage. 

Not his father, though. “Why'd you let Barbara get away, son?” he would say. “Why'd you bollocks it up? This way I’m never going to have grandchildren.” 

And something in Gareth's chest would clench because his grand master plan for life had included children, once upon a time. Starting a family. 

Yet when he carefully dibs Eve to the laughter of the other guests at her engagement party, or watches a mushy-looking Q emerge from the lobby, Gareth wonders if he might just have to revise his definition of family.

~*~

_**September 2012** _

“The thing you need to remember,” William Tanner says with a level of seriousness that is somewhat out of place in the jovial atmosphere of the pub, “is that you will never be able to fill her shoes.” 

Grief still clings to Tanner like dew to the meadow. Gareth understands - his predecessor has barely been laid to rest. 

“You mean I should carve out my own way.” 

Tanner takes a sip from his pint. “I reckon, yes. Won't be too difficult, though - good lads, all of them.” 

“And lasses,” Gareth points out, thinking of the brilliant Miss Moneypenny who had proven invaluable for much of the past weeks. His thoughts turn to the one wild card he identified among the ranks. “What about Bond?” 

“He's coming in on your first day, isn't he?” Tanner pauses, mulling it over. “Well. She was the one who recruited him. She died in his arms.” 

Gareth knows; he read the file. “Were they close?” 

“As close as you can get as boss and Double-oh.” 

Gareth feels compelled to raise a dubious eyebrow. 

Tanner remains unflappable, even though he obviously realises how his comment might have been construed. “He respected her. Bond doesn't respect many people.” 

“I'll do my best to become one of them, then.” 

“A truly Sisyphean endeavour, sir. If you allow me to pry – do you have someone at your side?” 

Only the slightest ghost of regret rolls over Gareth when he replies truthfully, “No. There’s an ex-wife who’s long since remarried.” 

The other man’s expression remains free of any judgement, and Gareth values him more with every passing moment. 

“You better brace yourself then, sir.”

“I'm stubborn.” 

Tanner considers him for a second. “Yes, sir, I believe you are.” 

“And please, Mr Tanner, call me Gareth when we're not at work.” 

The man grins. “Bill, then.” 

Gareth clinks his glass and they toast a new era.

~*~

It takes him eighteen months and eleven days after first contact, yet one memorable night shortly before Valentine's Day, Gareth wakes to 007 breaking into his flat to inform him of a conspiracy he uncovered. 

“You have a plan?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Gareth bares his teeth. “Then go get those bastards.” 

Bond smiles, and leaves. 

Fourteen hours later, Gareth has to placate a furious PM and assure the committee that the explosion was all part of a top secret mission. Bill and Eve congratulate him with matching fond looks before they leave him to handle the fallout.

And Gareth thought that would be the height of their relationship as M and 007, yet James Bond’s ability to surprise him seems to extend towards their personal life as well. 

Medical only just released the agent, his wounds severe enough to warrant four days suspension that Gareth vigorously endorses, yet for some reason Bond appears in his office before heading home. 

“If you’re here to ask for lenience, 007, I can assure you I’ll have one of Q’s staff shoot you with a tranquilliser and the quartermaster cuff you to your bed.”

It draws a startled chuckle from Bond, which morphs into a leer. “How do you know he wasn’t going to do that either way?”

Gareth closes his eyes briefly though it doesn’t shield him from that unbidden mental image. When he opens them again, Bond is grinning like the five-year-old he mentally regresses to in the absence of gunfire. 

“I’m here to extend an invitation, actually,” the agent says.

“Oh?”

Bond’s demeanour is nonchalant to a T, which has Gareth all the more intrigued. 

“Friday evening. A birthday dinner; my flat.”

It takes a moment to process, yet when it does, he feels a peculiar warmth fill his chest. Bond has never invited him to his birthday party before. 

“My pleasure,” Gareth says sincerely. “Should I bring anything?”

“If you wish to drink anything other than scotch or bourbon, then that.”

“All right. Thank you, Bond. I look forward to it.”

007 nods curtly, then slips out of the office. 

When Gareth tells Bill between complaining about the turmoil of the merger’s finalisation and the imminent descent of pumpkin spice _anything_ over London, his chief of staff tips his figurative hat with an earnest “Congratulations, sir. Do you want us to give you a lift?”

At Gareth’s questioning gaze, Bill explains, “Michonne and I’ve been invited as well. Michonne’s still nursing, so she volunteered to drive.”

They agree upon a time and Gareth finds himself looking forward to Friday more than he has to anything else in recent months.

~*~

James hears Q before he sees him. For the most part, however, that is due to the layout of his flat and his current preoccupation with the side dishes for the bœuf bourguignon awaiting its final touches, not with how loud his partner is being. 

For the most part, anyway. 

“I swear to God, if that tit asks me one more time why some agent I don’t even recall filled out form 304b instead of 521c _over a bloody year ago_ , I’m going to take Tess up on her offer and shoot the damn bastard!” 

Q comes into view then, hair a mess like he’s been running his hand through it, and eyes alight with that certain kind of anger only the new co-department head Mr Bennett can evoke. 

“I’d even get away with it, I’m sure,” Q goes on without pausing for breath, accepting the mug of tea James prepared when he got Q’s text that he was leaving the CNS building. “They’ll be able to find some compulsive hardcopy-fetishist to reorganise all Q-Branch files anywhere, but when I lose the plot because that plonker’s driving me up the walls even without Charlotte’s tech on my feet, they’ll be in deep shit.”

Q closes his eyes and practically inhales half the mug of Earl Grey in one gulp. James stirs the legumes and doesn’t even try to supress his smirk. 

“I love you. You’re a life saviour,” Q sighs, eyes still closed and cradling the mug.

“Just doing my part to keep England safe, darling,” James quips, and Q is off again, detailing how, exactly, the evil Mr Bennett has annoyed him in the second week of their forced cooperation. 

On 1st September, the final stage of the merger between the intelligence services was completed at long last, with personnel finally moving into their now shared departments. James only caught bits and pieces of the teething pains while on mission, but apart from the layoffs, the different philosophies of Five and Six have also caused much trouble. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Q shouts from the bedroom where he’s changing out of his work clothes, “I’m glad I’m free of most of the paperwork now that I’ve got a co-head for Q-Branch for all that nonsense; but why the hell did it have to be such an utter wanker?”

“You’re just in a strop because he’s against half your projects,” James points out. Again. These conversations haven’t reached the point yet where they annoy him, so he indulges his partner’s need to rant. Besides, Q is incredibly hot when worked up. 

“No, he’s not _against_ them,” Q argues as he emerges from the bedroom wearing snug slacks and a blazer over a blue graphic tee. James is sure he chose the one with the Dalek on the front just to annoy Mallory. “He’s _vetoing_ them! He’s never engineered anything in the entirety of his pathetic, sad life but he thinks he’s entitled to judge our projects? Bloody hell, the patents derived from our work’ve put up eight per cent of the entire budget of the whole sodding agency!”

“Which is why Millstone and Mallory aren’t signing off on his vetoes,” James reminds him, not unkindly.

Though Q isn’t done yet. He vents all through setting the table, which James gets him to do without much prompting (not that he’d get a word in if he tried), and by the time the quartermaster heaves a long-suffering sigh and slumps against the counter next to where James is pulling the chilled puff pastry out of the fridge, he’s almost complained himself hoarse. 

“Sorry,” Q adds, his cheeks colouring. “It’s your birthday and here I am, yammering away about petty stuff like that.”

“It’s not petty to you, Kian,” James tells him, earning a grateful kiss. 

“Why’d you make pudding? I thought Bill’s wife was bringing, what was it? Some family recipe? You’ve been at this for three days already; surely that’s enough effort for a meal.” 

“First,” James begins, making to pull out the pan from the oven, “the pastry’s not for pudding, it’s a crust for the beef. Second, Michonne _is_ bringing cornmeal cake, and third,” he concludes with a weary glance at his boyfriend, “you should be glad I’ve been busy preparing this instead of annoying the minions, or you.”

Q is too distracted by him carving a criss-cross into the crust and coating it with egg wash. James bites back an explanation for his actions since Q has been known to drift whenever he did in the past. He really is dating a philistine. 

Right on time – or at least the time James calculated – the doorbell rings. 

Eve waves the bottle of tequila she brought in his direction, but a nod from James sends her off with Q to chinwag about Hayden, the MI5 version of Eve and apparently the devil reincarnate. James only met him once, yet took an immediate dislike to his pseudo-casual suit, ugly brogues, and his entitled attitude. The bloke appears a perfect copy of all the snooty arseholes James had to deal with during his time at Oxford, acting like the world should kiss their feet for just existing. 

“Feliz cumpleaños, mate,” Sam says. “Need any help?” 

James declines, and accepts the envelope Sam hands him as soon as the preparations allow. Inside he finds two tickets to the next rugby match. He’s smiling all the way to the door, which reveals Mr and Mrs Tanner as well as Mallory. 

“Happy birthday, James.” Michonne is taller than him, so she has to lean down a bit to kiss his cheek. “One cornmeal tart, like the birthday boy asked.”

“You’re a goddess,” James tells her.

“No, just a first time mother in _desperate_ need for distraction,” she replies easily. 

“Well, I’d be happy to distract you even more,” James purrs and Bill cuts in with fake urgency at their flirting. 

His gift is a tie in the perfect shade for his new winter garments. 

“I’d be daft not to ruthlessly exploit the fact that we share a tailor, after all,” Bill explains to Sam at the man’s quizzical gaze. 

“Many happy returns,” Mallory offers, along with a small crate holding four bottles of wine. 

James thanks him and motions for him to enter the flat before telling Q to get their guests some drinks. 

“Hold the door, guv!”

James quirks an eyebrow at the newcomer. Farid is panting slightly from the sprint down the hallway, clutching a square box that has clearly been wrapped in a hurry. 

“Yeah, I know I’m late, but I bet my present’s worth the wait!”

“You didn’t have to get me anything, kiddo,” James says, taking the box off the young man.

Farid shrugs off his jacket and James is briefly distracted by the text of his tee, which reads, _There are 10 types of people: those who understand binary and those that don’t._

“Which one are you, bruv?” Farid quips with a wink. 

Since the kid knows James’s skills in the area, he doesn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he places the gift on the coffee table in the living room area after checking the food and tears into the wrapping. 

“Damn, I thought you’d be one of them folks who takes ages to open stuff.”

Now it’s James’s turn to shrug. “Orphan,” he volunteers, and Farid grimaces in sympathy. 

Inside the box is a round… robot, for lack of a better word. 

“Oh, a Roomba!” Sam comments, eliciting a smirk from Farid. 

“Better! Got it off a colleague when she upgraded to a new model and messed with it a bit. You’re gonna love this, guv, it’s way better than anything you’d be able to buy. You’ll never need to clean again.”

James is oddly touched by how much work must have gone into this, yet he teases, “You just wanted a guinea pig for your mad ideas.”

“You complaining?”

“As long as they don’t make you sleep on my sofa again, no.”

Farid cringes at the memory. “First off, that were my mates, and second it ain’t my fault you go all superspy on unsuspecting house guests!”

“A month ago I returned early from a mission and found an intruder in Q’s kitchen,” James explains to a Sam who is growing more and more confused. Farid’s slang surely isn’t helping. “So I took him down.”

“Which we ain’t speaking of ever again,” the kid grumbles, but any further discussion has to wait since the timer in the kitchen _dings_.

James instructs everyone to take a seat except Farid, who trails after him with a glance at Eve and Q who are telling the others every sordid detail about Millstone’s secretary. Farid’s expression darkens.

“Is he really so bad?” James wonders. “Hayden, whatshisname?”

Farid scowls with an intensity usually reserved for Yeun’s latest pranks. “You got no idea, guv’. Looks at me like I’m some no-good tosser y’all picked up from the kerb and talks a whole lotta bollocks about women’s rights to R, just cause she’s veiled. I swear, I’m this close to kicking that fucker’s teeth in, that dickhead –”

“Oi,” James snaps, because there are limits to how much swearing he’ll allow. 

Farid gapes at him. “D’you seriously just ‘language’ me, bruv? Damn, you’re really getting old!”

He shoos the kid towards the dining room table he pushed towards the large windows of his balcony to avoid having to reply. 

The truth is that, even three days after medical sent him home, his ribs are still hurting. It wasn’t even that bad to begin with but it still laid him flat on his back. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t even have stopped to grunt but today he’s celebrating his 48th birthday and the world seems set on reminding him of that at every turn. 

He pushes the thoughts into the darkest corners of his mind. Denial has worked for him in the past. It will have to do for this as well. 

Farid returns for the last side dish, but he hovers at James’s shoulder, eyes flitting towards the rest of the party. It doesn’t take a genius to infer why the man is nervous. 

“You’re not here as their employee, kid,” James assures him. “You’re here as my partner’s young padawan.”

It has the intended effect; Farid’s eyes light up. “He called me that?”

James watches as the man squares his shoulders and walks back towards the table, where he sets down the handmade pasta and sits down next to Mallory, the only other guest without partner. They are across from Eve and Sam while Michonne and Bill have taken the chairs to M’s right. They all ‘ohhh’ adequately when James places the pan with the meat in the middle, growing more impressed when Q regales them with the three day adventure that led to the dish. 

It’s a wonderful evening, peppered with highlights James will fondly remember in the future. And once Q, Eve, and Farid start doing shots, Farid even stops being so awkward around his boss. 

Mallory drinks most of the wine he brought with James’s help, yet James doesn’t overindulge… he has plans for later, he thinks and places a hand on Q’s thigh underneath the table. 

Michonne and Bill are the first to bid goodnight, whisking Mallory with them. For the two bottles he consumed, the man is quite steady on his feet, James notes, though before he can analyse the observation Sam distracts him with news from his current investigation into corruption in the International Ice Hockey Federation. 

“How’d you even get those emails?” Farid wonders. Sam points to Q. “Ha, should’a guessed, mate.”

James was more surprised that Sam had the gall to ask his partner for help; Q’s “It’s the least I can do, love. The man saved all our lives in January,” all but stating the obvious. 

“I enjoyed that more than I thought I would,” Q admits later during the clean. 

“You’ll enjoy the next bit more,” James says, letting his voice dip low in the way he knows goes straight to Q’s groin. 

“Ngh, I bet…” Q slides up behind where James is washing the most urgent dishes. The familiar press of a body against his back feels as wonderful as ever. “You’ve yet to tell me what you want to do. Carte blanche, like I said.”

James hums, chuckling when his vague reaction makes Q drape himself more across his back and bury his face in his shoulder. 

“You’re a bloody tease.”

“It’s half the fun.” James wriggles his arse against the other man. The reaction is instantaneous and sends a shiver up his spine. 

“Please tell me that’s the last thing you’re washing.” 

Instead of replying, James puts the dish onto the dish drainer and towels off his hands before leaning back and attaching both his hands to Q’s buttocks. He doesn’t need to push for his partner to understand and a gasp later, Q is rubbing his erection against James’s arse in a delicious rhythm. 

“I want you to take me apart tonight,” James whispers. “Wreck me.”

He hears Q’s breath stutter. “I can do that.”

“I’m not doing any work, though.”

“Oh, I got that.” Q’s hips still. “Come on, then.”

Inside the bedroom, Q splays James across the sheets. He takes his time removing his clothes, fingers and nails sliding over skin as they kiss. After almost nine months, there’s no patch on James’s body that Q is unfamiliar with, that he doesn’t know how to manipulate in order to make James’s pulse speed up and his heart flutter from arousal. 

He’s covered in a sheen of sweat before Q even grabs the lube. 

“Kian,” James groans, trying to push back against the fingers that have been stretching him for an eternity. 

“You said to wreck you, James,” Q whispers into his neck, then resumes sucking a probably impressive mark into his skin. He deliberately misses James’s prostate again and again until James is on the brink of flipping their positions and riding Q into oblivion, but a heartbeat before he makes his move, a finger rubs over the bundle of nerves. 

James keens, arching off the mattress, yet Q shifts and presses him back down with a hand on his chest, keeping him pinned between the sheets and his own weight. Unlike Q when their positions are reversed, James is perfectly capable to break free, but the continuous friction inside him makes his muscles go putty underneath Q’s ministrations, leaving him at the man’s mercy. James bites back a moan, but his partner knows him too well. 

“Patience, James.”

“Prat,” he gasps, then almost sobs with relief as he feels a third finger push past his perineum. 

At Q’s command, James rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow while Q pushes his legs apart and kneads his cheeks with something akin to reverence. A scrape of teeth makes James gasp and push back, but without his knees to add leverage it’s a futile endeavour. He clenches his gluteus instead, rubbing his cock against the sheets and feeling the precome smear across the fabric.

“You’re captivating like this,” Q murmurs. “So desperate and ready, but totally unable to reach the peak on your own.”

Q shifts to sit on top of James’s thighs; he can feel his knees encase his hips as Q’s hand bears down on his upper back. The position means Q’s erection is lining up with his cleft and the shallowest of thrusts provide at least some friction, but it’s nowhere near enough. 

“I can draw this out for hours,” Q says, seconds later, maybe minutes as James bites the pillow to muffle his pleas. 

A change in angle and he can feel the blunt head of Q’s cock against his entrance, but it’s gone immediately when he tries to clench around it.

“Damn it, Kian,” James grunts. 

“You know what I want to hear.”

Arousal clouds James’s mind but he’s still coherent enough to resist begging just yet. Q always breaks down quicker than this, especially after James teased him with his tongue for a bit.

“Very well then,” sounds Q’s voice next to his ear, and moments later Q is draped across his back, both hands on James’s wrists to keep them in place. 

He wriggles until his shaft slides between the globes of James’s arse again, slick with lube and rhythm increasing. James whines but Q refuses to go deeper, to rub against him, to breach him, and he won’t until James begs for mercy. 

The momentum makes his own erection rub against the mattress in shallow thrusts. There’s a crease in the fabric that stimulates the place his glans meets the shaft at every rut and ignites sparks of added pleasure every time. Q’s breath is growing ragged, moans slipping in between gaps, and James surrenders before he dies of need. 

When Q slides into him, it feels like the first breath after almost drowning. James’s eyes burn with relief as his lover sets a ruthless rhythm that threatens to overload him after the barest hint of stimulation that preceded it. 

Q yanks him to his knees then, hands slipping from his wrists and grabbing his hips as he thrusts into him hard enough to shake James’s entire body. He comes without a hand or tongue on his cock, and doesn’t stop moaning long after the aftershocks subsided because Q’s hips are still slapping against his arse. 

His lover stills abruptly, bollocks-deep inside him, his grip on James tightening enough to leave finger-shaped bruises. 

It takes a long time for Q to pull out and collapse next to him on the bed. 

“Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs. 

James can make out a bleary smile from slanted eyes and he musters what remains of his stamina and closes the distance to press his lips against Q’s. 

It takes no time to drift off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlenhiver also requested bottom!Bond… I hope you all enjoyed this as much as she said she did =) Chapter 2 will follow shortly. I have written up to ch 3 of 5, so this won’t stay a WIP for long. 
> 
> Don’t be shy and let me know what you think?
> 
> Feliz cumpleaños = Happy birthday  
> [This](http://www.frenchtoday.com/blog/beef-bourguignon-recipe) is the recipe I based James’s culinary endeavours on, for those interested.


	2. On Thin Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome back =) Your comments and kudos never fail to make my day!

_**October 2016**_

The door to his office bursts open and Gareth heaves a pre-emptive sigh. It’s telling that by now he recognises the level of his quartermaster's irritation by the way he flings open doors. Maybe he should invest in automatic ones. 

“Sir, I apologise for interrupting your surely busy morning,” Q says at a speed that Gareth only manages to keep up with because of four years of practice. “But this is a pressing matter that might prove –” 

“- detrimental to national security,” M interrupts, “I gathered that from the enthusiasm of your entry.” 

“Oh, uh, sorry about that.” 

“Well, what has Mr Bennett done this time?” 

“It’s what he’s going to do! He wants to prohibit the upcoming hackathon because of that little spot of bother in Azerbaijan.” 

Leave it to Q to reduce an intricate international conflict over nuclear weapons to a triviality standing in the way of his team-building strategies. 

“My department has been subjected to a lot of stress since the merger's completion and a night of friendly competition is direly needed to restore all our sanity…” 

Gareth lets the young man rant. If the past five weeks have taught Gareth anything, then it's that Q needs to vent his frustrations occasionally. Bottling it up only leads to outbursts that reduce the newest members of technical services, who haven’t had time to grow accustomed to Q’s brand of criticism, to tears. It's not that they are incompetent - compared to Q's merry band of minions they simply aren't up to par. 

The new co-department head, Mr Bennett, isn't helping either, with his anal adherence to the rulebook and proclivities in filing that even Gareth considers to be on the unhealthy side of compulsion. 

Not a day passes that he isn’t grateful for the man joining him at the top. Gareth has known Arthur Millstone before he took over as head of MI5 and Gareth holds him in high regard for his convictions and efficiency. 

Well, he should probably stop his quartermaster's ramblings lest the boy runs out of oxygen. 007's revenge would level the city. 

“… and while I get that Bennett’s system is perfect for organising the kind of data we amass, the sheer amount of work needed to implement it appears disproportional to the advantages of giving my entire branch a complete overhaul!” 

“Which you won't have to concern yourself with,” Gareth reminds Q. “You’re still in charge of practical applications, he for maintaining order among your staff and equipment. And as such it is within his rights to change the filing system, Q. I thought a mind of your calibre would be able to grasp that.” 

The man pouts but looks adequately chastised. 

“Now, regarding Halloween –”

“Sir, my minions –” Gareth coughs. “My treasured colleagues whom I consider equals,” Q amends (since he is forbidden from using the m-word in company of superiors ever since Mr Bennett joined forces with Millstone and McCarthy from Accounting), “need a night to decompress. If M-minus-one gets in a strop, just remind him of the patents that have originated –” 

“- from such interdepartmental activities, I am aware of the slides you designed and uploaded to our servers.” 

They include gifs, as Gareth believes the little animations are called. At times like this he wonders when his agency transformed into a preschool, or where Q gets the time to compile powerpoint presentations. Maybe it’s how he keeps sane, these days. 

“Then there's nothing to discuss, is there?” 

Gareth looks at the quartermaster, noting the darker quality of the shadows under his eyes, his matted curls and day-old clothes. Q-Branch is carrying the brunt of the merger and it shows, given they have more agents, even more trainees, and a group of MI5 employees used to smaller scale operations. The entire agency has to adjust, especially handlers, now that the two-handler system is being introduced. 

Besides, Q does have a point. 

“I’ll talk to Arthur,” Gareth says, “if you tell me what’s really bothering you.”

Q startles, obviously caught. “Sir?”

“I’m sure you knew there’s little Mr Bennett can do about your department-bonding exercises, so there has to be something else that fuelled this particular case of panic.” 

“Uh, well, sir…” 

“Go on.”

The young man adjusts his glasses and licks his lips. “I’m also trying to figure out how to best introduce James to my parents without making him worry himself into an early grave.”

Gareth bites back a groan. He genuinely hoped the drama would stop once 007 and Q rode off into the sunset, but alas, no such luck. 

“What speaks against a casual dinner?”

The young man is already shaking his head. “He’d only find a way to go on mission at the last minute.”

A devious idea occurs to Gareth. “Is your mother still working at the restaurant?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Be grateful she hasn’t been forced to retire yet, Q.”

“I know, it’s just…” The man huffs. “She doesn’t need to work anymore. Ta neither, so I don’t understand why they won’t just accept the house and enjoy a well-earned reprieve.”

Gareth feels his jaw clench yet hopes the quartermaster is too distracted by his own problems to notice. “They like being active. For some the prospect of retirement is daunting.”

 _Bond, for example,_ he doesn’t say, though it hovers in the air between them regardless. 

“If you really want to reduce the fretting to a minimum, take him to your mother’s restaurant, don’t tell him it’s that one, and surprise him with dinner with the parents.”

Green eyes widen. “That’s rather devious, wouldn’t you say?”

“You asked my advice. You don’t need to take it,” Gareth points out and watches as the genius blushes before thanking him and returning to his department. 

He doesn’t think Q would actually go through with his suggestion and forgets all about it while Accounting almost implodes for a bit. After his next briefing with 007, however, the agent lingers and shoots him a glare. 

“Q said I’d have you to thank for the ambush, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“He took me to a restaurant; turns out the waitress was his mother,” Bond grumbles, and the memory of the conversation a week ago returns. 

“How did it go?” Gareth asks. He isn’t even feigning interest – happy Double-ohs mean successful missions, after all. Besides, he might be slightly invested in the office romance, if only because it is a nice counterpoint to all the nagging and narking of the past months. 

“It went… well?” Bond’s inflection turns it into a question. 

_Oh, of course – the poor sod has nothing to compare it to,_ Gareth realises. 

“Well, did his father threaten you with a firearm?” he asks. 

“People really do that?” the other man wonders. 

“Oh yes.” Gareth’s mind flashes back to his first girlfriend whose father was completely unimpressed by the little troublemaker he was back then. 

“They invited me for Christmas,” Bond eventually admits, and Gareth’s lips curl into a smile. 

“Then it went splendidly. You mastered another milestone, it appears.”

Hearing it from anyone beside his partner seems to do the trick and most of the tension seeps from Bond’s shoulders. He goes on to complete his mission with close to no problems, even returns both himself and his equipment unscathed. 

Gareth’s high spirits last until McCarthy from Accounting files a complaint against her second-in-command, Wenham.

~*~

“Consider it a teething period,” Bill tells him the Tuesday before Halloween. It's the first time they managed to go for a pint since September. 

“I don't speak toddler, sorry.” 

“Oi,” Bill admonishes without any bite. “But I'm serious. It's a big adjustment that's bound to hurt, but eventually even Wenham's going to get used to our brave new world.” 

Gareth narrows his eyes. “I thought he and McCarthy had put their differences aside? Why did I spend all bloody weekend mitigating that disaster?” 

Stephanie McCarthy replaced the previous head of Accounting after both men from MI5 and MI6 left for a position in the private sector. Wenham was still too young for the job despite his stellar record. Well, clean until McCarthy blamed him for a recent cock-up that even Gareth knew was simply due to the merger. 

“Professionally, they’ve agreed on a cease-fire,” Bill explains. “She's still his aunt, though. Shares some opinions with Wenham's father.” 

Gareth rubs a hand over his face. “My job would be so much easier without narrow-minded bigots and homophobic gits.” 

“I believe it's less the gender of his sexual partners than their frequency. And the lack of grandchildren.” 

“As I was saying,” Gareth snaps before he can adjust his tone. 

Bill blinks, leaning back in his seat a little. “Sorry.”

Gareth heaves a sigh. “Not your fault. Had a lovely talk with my father today.”

“I’m sensing sarcasm.”

“You sense correctly. He’s still in touch with my ex-wife and called me – at my office, mind you – to tell me she’s going to be a grandmother.”

“And he complained that he wasn’t going to be a great-grandfather,” Bill concludes, pursing his lips at Gareth’s nod. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

Gareth snorts. “Right, because my schedule’s bursting with free time.”

“Then why…?”

“Because for Tristan Mallory, being a man means being a father. Never mind my military service, or my years at MI6, or,” Gareth stops himself before giving more away than he intended. 

Fortunately, Bill doesn’t seem to notice his almost-blunder. 

“Anything I can do to help? I could set you up with someone,” the man offers instead. “There’re some fit birds among Michonne’s friends.”

“Thank you, Bill, but I meant it. I barely manage six hours of sleep; how am I supposed to fit a lady in there?”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

Gareth nods, though his instincts are telling him that is unlikely to happen.

~*~

The CNS cafeteria is a pinnacle of modern design, combining eco-friendly with stylish, and yet somehow this doesn’t stop the seasonal pumpkin infestation from taking over the spacious ground level rooms. 

“We could issue an executive order banning all pumpkins from the premises.” 

Gareth doesn’t need to turn towards the man in line behind him to know it’s Arthur Millstone. They have been trying to make a habit out of joint lunches despite their subordinates’ efforts to eliminate breaks altogether. 

“I’m curious – how would you justify that?” Gareth asks, sending the smiling plastic decoration near the checkout a parting scowl as he slides his tray further towards Francine, the cashier. 

“I wouldn’t. Just send them on a snipe hunt and see what explanations they come up with.”

All Gareth manages before small talk with Francine puts the conversation on hold is a brief hum, though Arthur’s idea has some merit. He is one of three people in Gareth’s life who know where his aversion stems from. Four, if you count Q, which Gareth doesn’t. After all, the quartermaster didn’t ask why he was tasked to install personalised filters for his boss on all his devices. 

He told Bill when the man picked Gareth up from a pub after an overly cautious barkeeper had called, his state of inebriation enough to loosen his tongue. He had no such help when Eve confronted him during his second October at MI6. 

“If you tell me what’s causing your foul mood, sir,” she said, throwing diplomacy out the window, “I can help. I’m unwilling to handle such tiffs without an explanation.”

So he told her about his mother’s death on Halloween and her fondness for all things pumpkin, and how the mere sight of them cuts him to the bone, even decades later. It’s more complicated than that, but it sufficed to fill her eyes with empathy. 

Back in the present, Gareth says, “Maybe we can do that next year,” as he sinks into a chair. He startles when Arthur sits down across the table and gets his first actual look at him. “Christ, what did I miss?”

The side of Millstone’s face is turning blue, just above his left cheekbone, yet the man laughs. 

“Just a mishap with the tyros – the new recruits.” He waves it off. “Sure the footage’s floating around already. Poor bugger nearly wet himself when he realised who’s at the other end of his elbow.”

“You watch them often,” Gareth remarks. 

He has been curious, frankly. He receives weekly updates regarding their newest generation of spies – trained for domestic and international operations, more skilled than any of their predecessors from either agency – but has never sought them out in person. Once he manages to be at two places at once, he’ll chance it. 

“I like watching them fail during analogous exercises.” Arthur sneers a bit. “Give them a shiny piece of tech and they’re all champions, but take that away and suddenly you have a bunch of fish out of water.”

It feels good to join the laughter, though given that trouble has never been far away these days, it shouldn’t really surprise Gareth when an out-of-breath Bill Tanner materialises next to the table. 

“M, Mr Millstone – there was an explosion at a cathedral near Sochi; several fatalities though nothing definitive yet.” 

Tanner pauses. Gareth lowers his cutlery and braces himself for the bad news. 

“Our analysts caught 007’s target en route to Kazakhstan. Bond’s whereabouts are unknown, but Mitchell and Haddaoui didn’t call it in.”

Gareth is on his feet immediately and leads the way up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time with Arthur on his heels while Bill fetches Q, just to be safe. 

Inside MTAC, the scope of today’s hassle unfolds on the room’s large screen. The most prominent frame is the feed from BumbleBee, a prototype miniature drone that provides the agency with a visual in situations where other surveillance is unavailable and that are too dangerous for camera-equipped glasses. Farid is operating the device of his own design next to Tess, whose eyes are flitting between the satellite feed from the area and the image of Bond on a dirt bike chasing after a grey sedan on a mountain road that’s seen better days.

Gareth misses being in the field. 

“007, slow down, I meant it,” Tess snaps. “If you don’t slow down it’ll be physically impossible for you to take that curve. Slow down, that’s an order.”

Bond gives no indication that he heard, though the drone feed shows he does decelerate. He also takes one hand off the handlebar to produce his gun while the distance between the vehicles and the sharp curve ahead grows smaller by the second.

Three shots, two hit their target. The sedan’s hind wheels burst one after the other and the car careens into the side of the mountain instead of sliding over the edge. Bond breaks too late and he is catapulted off the bike, but he anticipated the fall and rolls with it, on his feet a moment later and running towards the sedan. 

Another shot, just before 007 reaches the wreck, and the agent curses under his breath. The feed shows why: the driver blew her own brains out, splattering the interior with grey matter and blood. 

Gareth matches her to the profile on the right – Lidia Karenina, also known as The Incendiary. A bomb specialist, and not the target of the elimination.

“One of you better explain, and explain fast, why 007 has gone after a black market bomb manufacturer while his mark’s on the way out of the country,” Gareth orders, his tone hard and posture broadcasting the anger making his blood boil. He really thought the time of being left out of the loop had passed. 

The two junior handlers startle violently, enough so that Bond looks into the camera. Behind Gareth and Arthur the door opens and Q enters with Tanner, tablet in hand and face a shade of green that is usually the result of Bond’s antics in the field. 

“Well?” Gareth prompts. 

The lass is obviously terrified, but at least Tess makes quick work of shedding light on the amount of daft luck and intuition on Bond’s part that was necessary to make him give chase to Karenina instead of Salkat Musrepov. The former is also the person responsible for the explosion at the cathedral. 

“007 managed to prevent the detonation of the rest of the explosives, but he couldn’t stop the one in the dome, sir. And you saw what happened to Karenina.”

“And why, Miss Mitchell, did neither of you inform either of your superiors of the change of plans?” Gareth all but snaps. “It’s bloody protocol, and nothing excuses ignoring that.”

Tess and Farid exchange an incredibly guilty look after glancing at the screen that shows a blank-faced Double-oh. 

Of course this mess is Bond’s fault. 

“007,” Gareth barks, his composure crumbling, “I swear, if you’re not going to explain why you intimidated your inexperienced handlers into covering an unsanctioned manoeuvre before completing your original mission within the next three minutes, I’ll walk out of this room and wash my hands of this entire cock-up. The committee’s been after your head for long enough and I’m more than inclined to give it to them at the moment.”

He can feel several people in the room tense, especially the quartermaster. Gareth admires his restraint. 

“I made a judgement call,” is all Bond says. No quip; no joke, no glint in his gaze. 

On days like this, Gareth damns his predecessor’s decision to keep the man, yet cannot find it in him to get rid of the blue-eyed devil. His successes still outweigh his failures and if Gareth has his way, it will remain like that until Bond retires. 

When seeing 007 to retirement became a goal of his career, Gareth refuses to contemplate. 

“007, you’re to return to England immediately. I expect your report within the next two hours. Starting then, you’re suspended from active duty until further notice, pending disciplinary action.” Gareth turns to the two handlers who shrink under the weight of his glare. “If you ever let an operative sway you like that again, it’ll be the last time and you can spend the rest of your careers in our basement.” 

He defers their punishment to Q since the quartermaster undoubtedly has a much clearer picture of what might actually work as effective deterrents to his minions.

“Sirs, the Home Secretary is calling,” Tanner informs him then, and Gareth and Arthur leave the scientists behind to take the call in the smaller videoconference room after agreeing on what to tell the politician. 

“The operative informed us immediately and we had to act quickly or every single person in that cathedral would have died,” Gareth hears himself saying, Arthur nodding beside him. “We made a judgement call.”

“That’s the most blatant lie I’ve heard all month, Mallory,” Mrs Pryce from the committee snubs when he repeats the sentence word for word later. 

She knows him well, is the problem. She’s also been after his job since Nicolas Hound’s arrest. 

“The threat’s been eliminated,” he grinds out. 

“Oh yes, the threat no one knew about, and all we’ve got is the word of three rogue – yes, _rogue,_ Mallory, I wasn’t born yesterday – MI6 employees because the actual culprit conveniently committed suicide!” 

He breathes out through his nose to curb his initial reaction. “I stand by my word,” he says instead. 

Pryce’s eyes narrow even further. “Oh, I’m aware. Too bad your employees aren’t as loyal to you as you to them, Mallory. I needn’t remind you of SPECTRE, the first one. And oh, who would have guessed? This time it’s 007, too.” 

Her smile is so artificial it bears more similarities with a grimace. Her expression darkens and Gareth grits his teeth at what he knows is to come. 

“If 007 can’t be controlled, he leaves us no choice but to let him go. I’ll speak with the other members of the committee immediately.”

She is a woman of her word, and Gareth is up well into the night to fight her campaign tooth and nail. He pulls every ace from his sleeve, and at the end of the day he emerges exhausted, yet victorious, with Pryce’s words still ringing in his ears. 

_“The ice you’re on is growing thinner, Mallory.”_

What irks him more than her less than covert hostility is Bond’s demeanour. There is not a single drop of gratitude; the agent simply sits through the debrief and sulks his way through his suspension, which Gareth has him training the new recruits. After that, Bond will requalify and be back to his usual, impulsive self before Christmas, no doubt about it, never mind his boss almost committed career suicide to keep him on. 

Well, the ‘almost’ might have to be struck from that thought soon. 

“Blimey, Pryce really wants your job,” Arthur says two days later, when the Guardian’s headline boasts the alleged truth behind the twenty-seven deaths in the cathedral near Sochi. 

_Has Mr Mallory forgotten the past two years already? Has MI6 returned to the shadows?_ , the last paragraph asks, and it remains the nicest coverage any of the bloody gossip mongers awards him. 

“Maybe it’s time I pull off the kid gloves, Mum,” Gareth murmurs on the 31st on the empty graveyard. “Maybe then my employees will stop all this rubbish.”

He places the flowers he brought on the grave, the same spot as every year, and just like every year, it will be joined by a pumpkin his father brings by. 

“Hullo, son.”

 _Speak of the devil._

“Hello, sir.”

“Been retired for a long time now, you know.”

Gareth doesn’t acknowledge the comment, doesn’t analyse the walking contradiction that is Tristan Mallory. 

“You made the papers again, son. Another scandal, eh? Have to admit, I’d prefer an announcement.”

He saves his breath and remains silent, lets his father talk about happier times and Gareth pretends to listen. It’s a practised dance, perfected over time that never fails to make bile rise in his throat. The bloody hypocrite. 

The wine bottle is empty before Gareth finds any sleep that night, yet at least he’s made up his mind. 

Since the old one isn’t working, it’s time to change his tune.


	3. Tumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a **warning** for implied/referenced alcoholism and canon-typical violence. And a warning for feels… I’m pre-emptively going to look for a place to hide... 
> 
> Special thanks to merlenhiver for her concrit and keeping an eye on pacing, leitmotifs, and drooling in all the right places!
> 
> PS: Virtual high-fives for anyone who spots the Whitechapel reference I snuck in there ;)

All things considered, the merger hasn’t changed Gareth’s daily routine as much as he feared. 

He still wakes up at least half an hour before his alarm at 5.30AM, still makes time for an hour-long run through the park he can see from his top-floor flat. The personal protection detail has been a feature of his life ever since assuming the mantle of M and took some getting used to, but now Gareth enjoys how the presence at his shoulder makes him feel less alone in the morning. 

He still cooks breakfast and gulps down too much coffee – a habit he blames on the army – while consulting the seven different newspapers he has delivered. Eight o’clock sees him enter the CNS building, where he is briefed on any relevant political developments by Analytics, and either Bill or Eve provides an update on current missions. Gareth meets whomever Eve has pencilled in, pacifies the committee at regular intervals and – and this is one of the major differences – settles any conflicts that have arisen since he left the building the night before. 

He has his driver pick up takeaway on the way home each night and eats it over briefs and documents, analyses and dossiers, translations of foreign press and short clips. He sends emails over one or two glasses of wine, and if he’s lucky he makes it to his bedroom before dosing off. Since the merger, the hands on the clock have progressed continuously further every evening, as more and more material piles up in his inbox. 

Thank God for Sundays. 

Sunday is still two days off, however, and this Friday brings the monthly meeting of department heads, along with a headache due to all the minor tantrums that have littered the past few days. 

“I say we pretend to have urgent business right afterwards,” Arthur suggests as everyone piles into the conference room. “Crack open that bottle of Lagavulin.”

“You have the best ideas,” Gareth murmurs in reply, massaging his temples. 

Q and Mr Bennett are already glaring at each other from opposite sides of the table. Daryl Wenham’s head is bowed and the annoyed air wafting off McCarthy would be strong enough to infect those around her, if the manager of the cafeteria team and the representative from Human Resources weren’t already in such a grim mood. 

On Gareth’s left, a tired-looking Eve is decidedly ignoring Hayden two seats over, with only Gareth himself and Arthur separating them. The secretary, however, doesn’t seem to notice – he is too distracted by Navya Wilkes, their newest head of Analytics they stole from diplomatic service in India, and her exuberant attitude, bright smile, and even brighter, blue extensions. Her most impressive talent is turning 009 into a stammering mess. One can but admire such qualities. 

The meeting starts out civilised enough. Gareth refuses to get his hopes up.

That turns out to have been a wise decision. 

“All I’m asking for is a little more manpower to implement the new filing system –”

“And I told you, Mr Bennett,” Q interrupts, “that we’re stretched thin as it is. My minions and I –”

McCarthy snarls, Hayden gasps, and Mr Bennett looks seconds away from bounding across the table. 

Time to implement his newest resolution. 

“ _Enough,_ ” Gareth snaps. He didn’t raise his voice but his tone sufficed to make everyone fall silent and turn towards him. “Several of you seem to have forgotten that we’re one of the most advanced intelligence and security agencies in the world, not a travelling zoo. You’ve had eight weeks to adjust, but I’m appalled how spectacularly you failed. Well,” he continues, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, “this will stop _now_.”

He looks from Q to Bennett, both of whom meet his gaze with matching defiant glints. Apparently they do have something in common, Gareth muses. 

“Mr Bennett, Q – you’re grown men. Act like it, or I’m going to lock you into a broom cupboard until you’ve come up with a way of peaceful coexistence. Q, you’re going to spend one hour each day assisting your colleague with his duties –”

The quartermaster is already opening his mouth of object, but Gareth doesn’t give him the chance. 

“- and Mr Bennett, you’re going to help the engineers one hour each day, until I allow you both to stop. Are we clear?”

Two meek “Yes, sir” are the reply. He turns towards Accounting next. 

“Mrs McCarthy, I’ve told you before that personal misgivings have no room at the CNS, and this is your last warning. Mr Wenham is a capable employee who doesn’t need constant supervision by the likes of you.” The ghost of a smile tugs at Wenham’s lips and Gareth makes sure to seek out his gaze before continuing. “Do your job, Mrs McCarthy, and let him do his or I promise your probationary period is not going to end on a high note.”

He tells both the cafeteria staff and HR to ‘suck it up’ – in more diplomatic terms – and eventually turns towards Eve and Hayden. 

“We’re a diverse agency, where every unique individual is welcome and this diversity is cherished. Stop inflicting your views on others, Mr Davis; and stop attempting to sabotage your colleague, Miss Moneypenny.”

Both employees wince while Arthur nods in support. Eve’s shoulders slump and something in her expression gives Gareth pause, yet he has no chance to dwell on the matter at the moment since they still have half the meeting to get through. 

Which, in the wake of his scolding, goes so smoothly it borders on eerie. Arthur and he are on their way to Arthur’s office to toast their success despite the early hour, when Wenham asks for a word. 

“I wanted to thank you for what you did, sir,” the accountant says with a tired smile. His long hair is straggly and Gareth can tell the man hasn’t had time to dry-clean his suits in days, let alone sleep. 

“It needed to be said. I meant it, Mr Wenham – you’re a stellar accountant and if you play your cards right you’ll have your aunt’s job one day.”

“Guess it’s all I’ll ever get from her,” the man mutters and Gareth breathes out with more force behind it than necessary. Daryl blinks owlishly at him. 

“As clichéd as it sounds, it’s your life,” he adds after a beat as way of explanation. “Even if your parents are hard-pressed to see it that way.”

Whatever Wenham reads in his expression, it lifts his mood and gnaws a bit at the chip on his shoulders. 

A minute later inside Arthur’s office, Gareth drains the tumbler in one go, telling himself it’s to celebrate the accomplishment, not to dampen the strange feeling in his chest.

~*~

“007, reporting for duty.”

Gareth lifts his eyes from the schedule he is studying. “The definition of duty has changed in your case for the following two weeks.”

Bond frowns, undoubtedly because he just suffered through a week’s worth of forced free time due to his suspension. 

Gareth allows himself to smirk at the operative. “During the two remaining weeks of your punishment, you’re going to assist Mr Lattimer with any task he sees fit.”

It takes a second to sink in. When it does, the man snarls, “He’s in charge of the recruits.”

“I see your memory is still in tact, 007. You’re our most seasoned Double-oh. I’m sure our tyros are eager to learn everything you’ve got to teach them.”

“Sir,” Bond protests, yet falls silent after gauging Gareth’s body language and eventually flees his office, tail between his legs. 

Gareth keeps an eye on the situation while Bill sends him knowing smirks. 

“You’re grooming him, aren’t you?”

All Bill gets in response is an amused eyebrow raise at the choice of words. 

Tanner isn’t the only one to put two and two together, as Gareth learns the second Monday of Bond’s stint as teacher. He takes the stairs whenever possible, partly to stay fit, partly because he finds the glass elevators of the CNS building quite unsettling. Moving without making a sound is still second nature to him unless he consciously chooses not to let it, which is why neither Q nor Bond realise someone else is in the stairwell with them when they exploit the security cameras’ blind spot here. 

“Will you stop grumbling already, James,” Q says. He sounds both fond and exasperated – a common reaction to 007 on his part. “You’re a great teacher; I’ve seen the footage.”

“You mean you went snooping.”

“Yes, and I don’t get why you’re so bloody opposed to this –”

“It’s boring. It’s pointless. I could do more good in the field –”

“Like you did in Sochi, eh?”

Bond’s sigh echoes in the staircase. “I already apologised to your mini-me and Tess.”

When he replies, Q sounds much less fond. “You shouldn’t have manipulated them to begin with! You have any idea how much it meant to them to be allowed to supervise your mission? Now they’ve got to rework the filing system with that less attractive version of Jo Chandler posing as my colleague and probably won’t take pointe as handlers for a hell of a long time, all because of your sodding ego.” 

Silence falls. The heavy breaths of the quartermaster are the only thing Gareth can hear for a few seconds. 

“Sorry, I know we’ve been over this,” Q murmurs. “Don’t you see how teaching the newbies can help keep Britain save? Besides, you could keep doing it once –”

“ _Once what?_ ” Bond all but growls. 

Gareth knows this kind of anger too well. 

“Well…” Q is probably fumbling with his glasses in the brief pause. “Once you’re not fit for active duty anymore.”

The slamming of a door cuts through the small space of the stairwell like a gunshot, yet Gareth was bracing himself for it. His respect for the quartermaster grows another notch when the man doesn’t storm after his boyfriend but instead takes a moment to compose himself before heading back to Q-Branch. 

Needless to say, Gareth didn’t expect Bond to fall in love with an instructor position any more than the rest of the agency. At least his partner is on board – time will take care of the rest. 

Or so Gareth hopes.

~*~

James has sand in places that sand has no right to be. Beads of sweat are gathering at the base of his spine and he’s fairly certain a scorpion just crawled across his calves, and yet he cannot move a muscle and bugger up his aim and concentration. 

It’s better than suspension. Of course M would start him off with the kind of dreary mission every Double-oh usually avoids like the plague. His mark finally appears within his visor and pulling the trigger soothes something in the pit of his stomach. 

He spends the rest of November and most of December snatching up any job he can and is secretly grateful for each and every one of them. In-between, he spoils Q as much as he can, lavishes him in attention and explores if it’s possible to suck him dry in the mornings. 

“Quit stalling,” Tess’s voice sounds in his ear. “You’re clear to go.”

“I’m about to leap into a foul stream of sewage; I believe I deserve a moment to mourn my sense of smell,” James comments, and chuckles at Farid’s disgusted retching. 

“Come on, 007,” the kid says, “the sooner you jump, the sooner you’ll be done and the more time you get for a shower before Christmas brunch with the in-laws.”

“Cut the chatter,” R orders. James almost forgot she was supervising the younglings’ first mission with him after the mission in Sochi went tits-up. 

James eventually braves the sewer, sheds his protective clothing with a grimace and forces his way through the safe house until Salkat Musrepov is the last thug standing. Well, not for long. 

“Target eliminated,” he transmits, and begins the clean-up while Farid chatters away amiably about how exciting it must be to spend the holiday with Q’s family. 

“Exciting isn’t the word I’d use,” James mutters. _Daunting. Terrifying._ Those would be apt equivalents. 

“You know we’re doing an orphans’ Christmas here, guv?”

All he can do is grunt as he lifts the lifeless body of Musrepov. _Christ, that was easier twenty years ago._

“It’s when folks who don’t have nowhere to go on the holidays spend it together!” Farid explains animatedly. James can match the tone to the appropriate hand gestures by now. “Well, we’ll all be working, but some bird from Five got a tree and a couple of us all tinkered a bit and added decorations; it’s rank, innit, Tess?”

“Mr B says it’s a fire hazard but we got him to let us keep it anyway,” the woman adds, and then Farid is blabbing again, covering everything from Secret Santa to how “awesome” his presents for James and Q are – without stating what they are, of course. 

James only realises he is smiling when he catches his reflection in the window, illuminated by the fire eating away at the corpses and all evidence that puts him at the scene. 

The smile is gone twelve hours later. 

He barely slept a wink on the plane since his blood system is eighty per cent adrenaline at the moment. He hasn’t seen Jessica since the Archangel ordeal and only met Q’s parents that one time. Gift shopping was a nightmare, needless to say, but the prospect of spending all of Christmas Day with the family looms over him like an oncoming storm. 

The small cuts clustered around his right eye from where Musrepov slammed his head into the glass table are unfortunate, too, but at least they could distract people from his split lip and the collar of bruises around his neck. 

“I could give you some make-up?” Tess suggests when James drops by Q-Branch to return his equipment. Or what’s left of it. 

“He’d have to apply it every day, bruv,” Farid butts in, brimming with excitement and cradling a small gift bag. “Merry Christmas! The green one’s for Q, the blue one for you, the red one for the cats. And ‘cause the guv ain’t here, you gotta open yours, at least!”

He still has ten minutes until he has to be at the debrief, so James indulges the man who currently bears more similarities to an overeager puppy than anything else. Inside his box are cufflinks, equipped with an entire list of special features, and James is too impressed to catch most of them. He’s sure Farid is going to send him a manual, like he did with the sentient Roomba. 

All too soon, the cab drops James and his small overnight bag off in Becontree, Dagenham. Looking down the street lined with identical, redbrick buildings, the reason for Q’s aggressive campaign to buy his parents a house of their own becomes inescapably clear. 

He rings the doorbell at precisely 11am and tries not to fidget or question his wardrobe choices. Q told him to dress casually, so he donned slacks and a grey knitted cardigan over a turtleneck he rarely wears but that Q adores. It has the added side effect of hiding the bruises on his neck as well as concealing the bandages covering the gash in his side and on his arm, even if he can’t hide the remaining scrapes near his eye.

Jessica opens the door with a smile colder than the wind currently blowing through the city. 

It sets the pattern for the rest of the day – Jess silently judging him and disapproving of him, Q’s father Benjamin being subtler in his misgivings. At least Edith seems to accept him, judging by the mushy looks she sends them whenever she catches them intertwining hands underneath the table. 

The presents manage to mellow Benjamin, at least marginally. Even Jess’s smile turns more genuine when she unwraps a pair of ballet shoes, which James purchased from her usual vendor at Q’s advice. 

They all go for a walk in the afternoon and all help prepare dinner, and it’s almost too smotheringly domestic for James to bear. Yet seeing Q’s cheeks heat at his father’s antics, his mother’s forward questions or Jessica’s swearing makes every second of feeling out of place perfectly worth it. He gleans several new details about his partner, too, most notably that he seems as unused to responding to Kian as James is to using it. 

“Kian’s a daft tosser who thinks the difference between right and wrong don’t matter,” Q had explained, accent colouring his words, after that initial fateful meeting with his parents when James first noticed the man’s unease. “I like it when you call me Kian in bed, James, but I’m glad you’re fine with my handle. It’s the first alias I’ve ever really felt comfortable with.”

Once the day is over, James wants nothing more than to curl around his partner and sleep for twelve hours, but before that Q has to get his fix and spend at least half an hour on a computer. James uses the time to change his bandages in the narrow family bathroom. 

The door opening draws his attention. Jess shuts it behind her and leans back against the towels hanging from the hooks fastened to the wood. 

She winces as her eyes fall on the gash James has just been cleaning. “Worse than I thought.”

James picks up a bandage. 

“I’d offer to help, but looks like you’ve got it.”

He nods. He can’t quite gauge her motivation for being here. 

“Ma said I’ve got to apologise.” Her tone is at odds with her words. “Ain’t gonna do that. I’m not getting attached to you, James.”

He meets her eyes through the mirror, prompting her to explain, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

“Kian’s told me lots about you, long before you guys started shagging. Told me about you training those baby agents, too, and he sounded so fucking hopeful, you know? But you’re never gonna stop, are you? You come here, a right wreck, probably killed some wanker only a couple of hours ago, and then you hold hands and snuggle up to him, and he’s too blind to see that there’s no way you’re ever gonna give him what he deserves. Cause you’re not gonna retire any faster than Ma and Ta. You’re gonna do this till your luck runs out and then someone’s gotta be there to pick up the pieces. So I’m not getting attached to you, James. And I’m not apologising for that.”

She slips out after another few seconds, leaving him with his scars and wounds and a strange pressure on his chest. 

When he wraps himself around Q later, bandaged up and smelling of soap, James buries his face in the man’s soft curls and breathes in the scent of him. 

The truth behind Jessica’s words haunts him in his dreams.

~*~

The last week of December brings one single day of snow that somehow flicks a switch and turns all of London on its head. It’s almost as if, in the year that passed since the last snow decked the rooftops and trees, everyone has forgotten how to deal with the weather. 

“Snow’s the least of our worries.” Navya Wilkes hands Gareth a tablet showing the familiar layout of an Analytics memo. “We’ve been picking up chatter, starting immediately after the reactor leak in Pakistan.”

Gareth doesn’t slow his pace on his way down to the winding staircase. “About?”

“The conference on cyber security in Paris. Rumours have it one of the speakers will be the quartermaster of MI6.”

Gareth fails to bite back a curse. “Well, I’m on the way to him right now, so we can break the good news together.”

As expected, Q is currently walking 009 through instructions on how to use the surveillance glasses he is going to employ for the first time, now that they have moved past the testing stage. The Double-oh’s posture changes as soon as he sees Navya – spine straightening, chest puffing, throwing his hair back in a textbook depiction of hyper masculine posturing. Q hides his laughter behind a hand. 

“Impeccable timing, sir – we just finished,” the man says once he has bested the impending giggling fit. 

Gareth hands Rhys the thin file he brought. “Get to the bottom of this, 009. This is the fourth incident involving nuclear facilities in three months and it absolutely narks me not knowing what’s going on. We need the larger picture.”

Q swallows when he updates him on the threat level regarding the conference in Paris. 

“You’ll need a security detail.”

Just like that, the hint of fear is gone, replaced by a giddy gleam. “Sir, if I may suggest someone?”

“Are you sure you’ve earned that right?” 

“Yes,” Q asserts with a vengeance. “There hasn’t been a row since the holidays, and Mr Bennett and I are still spending two hours each day in one another’s company.”

The accusatory tone draws a chuckle from Gareth. “Then it’ll be no problem to keep it up until the next review.”

The quartermaster scoffs – though it sounds more like a cough and Gareth makes a note to ask after his health later. Either way, Gareth decides it’s time to put him out of his misery. 

“I’m assigning 007 as your personal security detail for the weekend in Paris.” Q beams at him. “If, for whatever reason, Bond gets loose and destroys the Eiffel Tower, or any other national landmark, I’ll feed his testicles to your cats, Q. Are we clear on that?”

How quickly the man’s smile falters is thoroughly amusing. “Yes, sir, I’ll keep him in line.”

“Good. Miss Wilkes, I still need to know what I’m going to tell the PM who’s going to be in my office in ten minutes.”

The analyst tears herself away from Rhys, who by the looks of it was regaling her with an exciting tale of one of his missions, all charming smiles and dimples, and follows him back upstairs to provide all that her department has figured out. Or lack thereof. 

“Well, at least it will be a short meeting,” Gareth deadpans. 

“We’ll have news soon, sir. 009 won’t disappoint.”

She doesn’t blush, but it’s close, Gareth can tell. He almost sends her off, yet somehow he feels compelled to make sure she is thinking this through. Even if he hadn’t been the one to hire her, he is still responsible for his employees’ welfare. Besides, their acquaintance goes back far enough to allow such prying enquires. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “Does 009 know?” 

“That I wasn’t born a woman?” Navya smirks. “Nah. Need something to talk about on our first date, after all.”

“Oh, so he grew a pair and asked, did he.”

She snorts. “He’s still at the stage where they question if I’m interested as well. Like I’m not being obvious enough.”

“Double-ohs have a tendency to miss what’s in front them when it doesn’t come attached to projectiles or explosives.”

“Well, you’d know, sir,” she quips. 

She leaves before Gareth can reprimand her for being so ambiguous with information no one except the committee and his predecessor’s predecessor are privy to. 

The meeting with the PM – who saunters in twenty minutes late, naturally – is a disaster. The spineless prick’s been spending too much time with Mrs Pryce by the sound of it. To make matters worse, Gareth’s favourite decanter is empty.

“Miss Moneypenny,” he barks once the PM has returned to the circle of hell from whence he came, “care to explain why the Drambuie hasn’t been refilled?”

His usually unflappable secretary with impeccable awareness of her surroundings startles at the sound of his voice. “Uh, I apologise, sir – I checked last week and it was all fine.”

“And this week it isn’t. Don’t let it happen again.” 

He is back in his office before she has a chance to reply.

~*~

The first bundle of intel 009 sends their way doesn’t shed as much light on the mystery as Gareth had hoped. It’s obvious the several incidents across the globe have a common theme, yet neither two share a common perpetrator. 

It’s times like these that Gareth’s skin starts itching, head filling with possible courses of action, and he simply _has_ to visit the shooting range to keep himself at his desk the remainder of the day. 

He’s a bureaucrat now. The closest he gets to fieldwork nowadays is watching the footage of other Double-ohs, which he catches himself doing more and more in the days after Navya’s comment. 

_Keeping up to date with 009’s progress is necessary_ , Gareth tells himself. _I’m not being melancholy._

The lie becomes infinitely more porous when he places a corkboard against the bookshelf in the corner of his office, covers it with encoded notes holding all the information they have managed to gather in the past few weeks, and starts connecting and colour-coding select items. 

Well, it wasn’t his carelessness that blew his cover and got himself captured. 

“Sir?” Tanner’s voice interrupts. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” he says, his mind still on the blank space where the name of the responsible party should be. 

Gareth shakes his head in the hopes it will chase away the memories of adrenaline and being useful, but no such luck. 

“Any news?” 

“No, sir. I was wondering if you’re going to make it this Sunday?”

Gareth has to stifle a sigh. Once a month Michonne and Bill have him over for dinner, something Eve and Sam decided to copy after Sam had been read in and saved one of Gareth’s best employees. It’s a nice tradition, yet ever since September its frequency has been dwindling.

“If Q-Branch manages to come up with a way for me to be in two places at once, Bill, I will.”

Disappointment seeps through the usually so composed features of his chief of staff. “It’s been three months.”

Gareth grimaces at the reminder and throws a glance at the pile of briefs underneath his tabled on his desk as way of explanation. 

“Do you ever just relax?” Bill wonders. “Because Eve mentioned you cancelled on her and Sam two weeks ago.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve picked up on how Mrs Pryce is busy choosing a saw to chip away at the chair I’m sitting on.”

Tanner mutters something that sounds a lot like “That harpy” to Gareth. 

“I’m truly sorry, Bill. Give my best to your wife and your little one.”

His friend clearly isn’t happy but at the moment, Gareth has more important things to worry about than how to act around a thirteen-month-old.

Heaving a sigh, he abandons the board and sinks onto the sofa, picking up the tablet as he does. If he makes it home before midnight, he will count himself lucky.

~*~

James made plans as soon as Tanner informed him he would be the one to accompany Q to Paris, starting with reservations at his favourite bistro for Friday evening before the reception at the hotel. 

Too bad Q’s immune system has other ideas. 

“I’m calling medical,” James repeats, his hand not leaving Q’s forehead which is burning up. 

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” his partner wheezes, dissolving into a coughing fit right after. 

James strokes his matted hair, soaked from sweating for an eternity before Q’s laboured breaths eventually roused both of them from their slumber. He charms the nurse on duty into waking the doctor, who trades a promise on James’s part to be the perfect patient the next time he’s in medical against a house call, something that has Q laugh for a full minute. 

Q pleads for a quick fix but Doctor Harris isn’t having any of that. For once in his life, James agrees with the physician. Given the chatter Wilkes has been on about, maybe Q’s absence is a blessing. James resolves to spend the weekend playing nurse with the help of Turing and Linux. 

That is, until Mallory informs him, “His presentation is too important to cancel, 007. Q suggested we send Mr Haddaoui instead.”

Which is how James ends up dragging Farid to his tailor for an emergency suit fitting, seeing as the kid’s garments are more adequate for a flea market than an international conference on cyber security with state officials in attendance. 

James decides to keep the reservation. He regrets it ten minutes into their arrival at the restaurant. 

“What the fuck are escargots?”

“Snails.”

“Why’d you wanna eat those, guv?”

“Just try them,” James practically pleads, and resigns himself to leaving the heftiest tip of his life after Farid dissects his portion with a revolted scowl. 

At least the presentation on Saturday flies by without incident. Farid starts out as a nervous wreck yet once his talk focuses on the intricacies and challenges of the technical side, he grows more and more confident until he can even deal with the condescension tingeing the questions of certain guests. 

James wonders if his licence to kill covers pompous pricks and uppish bastards. 

“It doesn’t, love,” Q tells him while R snickers. Of course he hacked the channel. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” James wonders. 

“Oh, but I am. It’s like you think I need anything more than a tablet to gain access to our systems.”

Q sounds worlds better than he did when James kissed him goodbye – on the forehead – but still a bit under the weather. They chat for a while with James pretending to be on his phone, one eye on Farid. 

“He’s been trying to pull a lady from the private sector since last night.”

“And you’re letting him?”

“I did a background check, sir,” R says, reminding them she is still on the line as well. “She’s as clean as a rep from these corporations can be.”

“I don’t trust her.” James doesn’t provide a reason, mostly because the sentiment stems from a gut feeling, though Q knows him well enough to fill in the blanks. 

“Keep an eye on him.”

“I believe that’s why I’m here.”

“No, I mean…” Q has to stop to clear his throat. “He’s there because of me. And…”

 _And somehow the little bugger’s become the ward we never knew we wanted,_ James mentally finishes for his partner. 

Farid’s pulling endeavours find a successful end and James only falls asleep when he hears the lass leave. He doesn’t let go of his Walther for the rest of the night and spends the Sunday morning programme on high alert. 

His vigilance pays off when the shooting starts. 

One of the event’s security guards opens fire at the Russian ambassador currently on stage. The impact throws the man backwards and James has pushed Farid to the floor before the attacker has time to adjust his aim. 

It’s chaos, too many inexperienced bodyguards with no clear idea of who the enemies are. James gauges the situation in a heartbeat, takes out the shooter’s three accomplices he identified with unwavering precision, before dragging Farid out of the room where he surprises three more. 

“Stay here,” James orders as he pushes the kid behind a pillar wide enough to hide the slim man. “Don’t come out for anyone except me.”

Farid nods, eyes wide with fear. 

James makes quick work of any thugs that cross his path yet keeps to the foyer, part of his attention always on Farid. It’s over quickly and only costs him a broken rib or two, until but one shooter remains. 

A woman’s scream cuts through the room and James turns around in time to see Farid’s bed partner fall, clutching her calf. Farid emerges from his hiding spot like the daft berk he is, so James throws his Walther at the female assailant since he doesn’t have time to reload. She proves skilled at hand-to-hand, enough so that she sends him tumbling to the floor after he broke her nose and kicked her weapon away. 

He leaps to his feet and seeks out his attacker – only to find her darting for the gun that still holds at least one bullet, her eyes on where James knows Farid is attempting to get the woman to safety. 

Time slows for the length of a breath. 

James can close the distance, he’s sure, and his feet are already moving, pushing him off the floor and into Farid.

The shot rings out but all James cares about is shielding the kid. He presses him to the plush carpet and draws the knife hidden near his left ankle as he turns. The blade buries itself in the woman’s carotid artery and she collapses with a cry. 

“Are you all right?” 

Farid nods frantically before something on James’s right draws his gaze and he blanches. James wonders if the bullet hit the woman and moves to check, only to grunt from the pain exploding up and down his right leg. 

The bullet didn’t hit the woman. 

It hit his knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … *gulps* … I’ll go hide now… (Thoughts? Reactions? ConCrit?)


	4. Bottoms up (part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult, but some restructuring later and it’s working. 
> 
> Chapter 4 and 5 come with **warnings for alcohol abuse and unhealthy coping mechanisms**. Not sure I need to warn for that, though just to be safe: minor original character death ahead.

Gareth enters medical to find Q and Farid already sitting on a hospital bed. The arm Q has around his protégé seems to be the only thing holding him upright. 

Their eyes are shrouded in worry when their heads snap up at the sound of footsteps. 

“None of the major terrorist organisations staked a claim yet,” Gareth says, “but the Direction Générale has Miss Bajolet in custody.”

Farid startles, dislodging Q’s arm. “What? Why?”

“The one surviving shooter identified her as part of the ploy. It was her job to seduce the quartermaster and draw him out should the first attempt at his life fail.”

The revelation prompts a snort from Q. “ _That_ was their plan? Throw a woman at me? How the hell’d they even know who to seduce?”

Gareth grimaces. “They recognised 007. Concluded that the man with him had to be the quartermaster.” He barges on before the guilt on Q’s face can increase even more. “And Miss Bajolet wasn’t the only honeypot in place.”

“Shit, _the bloke!_ ” Farid gasps. “Offered me a drink; was gone real fast when I said no.”

Gareth inclines his head. “Any word on Bond?”

Q’s features fall again as he shakes his head. As if on cue, the door leading to the operating rooms opens, revealing Doctor Daneel Peeters. The country’s foremost arthroplastic surgeon greets them with a soft smile that eases the tension in Gareth’s shoulders a little. 

“The surgery passed without complications,” Peeters says. “It’s also very likely Mr Bond won’t have to rely on a cane.”

Q and Farid’s gulps are audible; though neither of them poses the one question they are certainly burning to ask. Gareth knows the answer, but meets the doctor’s eyes anyway. 

“Will he ever be able to return to active duty, ma’am?”

She purses her lips. “He’ll be able to walk without a leg brace after about six weeks, but the swelling can take longer to fade completely. We didn’t discover any permanent nerve damage, but extreme movements or anything with a risk for renewed injury are off the table, and that includes his Double-oh duties, sir. Or, frankly, any kind of unpredictable field work. From what I’ve gathered, Mr Bond strikes me as man who seeks out risks.”

Q’s eyes have a wet gleam to them; Farid’s are equally sad. Gareth fetches them all tea while they wait for Bond to wake up, late hour be damned. Doing nothing is a welcome reprieve from the shambles that is international politics at the moment, with two representatives dead, five in critical condition, and countless more injured. 

He enters the private room first. Bond looks away immediately when he identifies his visitor, moving as fast as the undoubtedly powerful haze of pain medication allows. 

“Q and Farid are waiting outside,” Gareth placates the agent. “I just wanted to commend you on your actions. Even the French are impressed.”

His quip falls flat, not that he expected anything else. 

“I also wanted to reassure you that you still have a place at MI6, Bond.”

Despite the drugs in his system, he sees the man clam up when the form of address registers. 

Not 007. _Bond._

Gareth curbs the impulse to place a hand on Bond’s shoulder. Instead, he tries to offer comfort verbally, seeing as he has been exactly where Bond currently is.

“It took me a long time to adjust, Bond, but I did. So can you,” Gareth tells him with conviction evident in his tone. “If you ever want to talk, I can help lend perspective.”

The agent doesn’t meet his eye, doesn’t give any indication that he heard the offer. Gareth lingers for a moment longer, though eventually clears the room for the men in the waiting area, and returns to work as the clock strikes midnight.

~*~

He keeps a close eye on Bond’s progress, even though the familiarity of the situation hurts Gareth more than he can express, let alone admit to outside of a dark corner of his mind. 

He remembers the anger, the denial. Pushing himself during physio, lashing out at those around him. Q visits daily, as do Eve, Bill, and Farid. 

“It’s like he thinks he can return his knee to its previous state by sheer force of will,” Q complains the day before Bond is due to be released from medical. That he stayed the full two recommended weeks baffled Gareth until Doctor Harris explained about how he had traded this against a house call. 

“May I request a few personal days, sir? I fear for what James is going to do alone at the flat.”

Gareth denies the request, raising a hand in anticipation of any protests. “Don’t smother him, Q. He needs time to breathe and realise the truth about his situation.”

For a moment it seems as if the quartermaster is about to argue after all, yet understanding dawns a heartbeat later as Q’s eyes swivel to Gareth’s shoulder. 

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“No harm done.”

The next day, Gareth is wrapped up in appointments from eight to seven, seeing as the United Nations decided to increase security at the conference on nuclear weapon programmes, meaning MI5 and MI6 have to do their share of background checks for all additional personnel. The UN’s resources are not a bottomless pit, so they’ll need to hire private security firms if they want to implement their maximum security dreams. 

He watches Bond limping out of medical on the feeds later, refusing to let anyone take his bag off him like the proud bastard he is. 

_He’ll come around_ , Gareth tells himself. He eyes the Drambuie decanter on the table near his office’s sitting area but a knock on his door draws his attention to the clock instead – 8.26pm. 

“Eve? I thought you’d left for the day.”

His secretary gently closes the door. “I promised Q I’d bring them dinner; make sure James hadn’t torn the flat apart yet.”

“Has he?”

Despite the shake of her head, the worried frown doesn’t leave her face. “Linux is fascinated by the brace. I think that has a calming effect.”

“If my job has taught me one thing, it’s that James Bond is like a chameleon. With time, he’ll adjust to everything.” He squints at her. “And why are you back?”

“Oh, Sam’s following up on a lead in America. I thought I’d try to get on top of all the work on my desk.” 

She doesn’t look too happy about her fiancé’s absence. Gareth nods and is about to wish her the best of luck, yet something about her body language makes him stop. After a beat she continues, her voice betraying the barest trace of nerviness. 

“Sir, could I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course,” he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. 

Eve sits down and when she meets his eyes again, there is determination in her gaze. 

“Sir, I’ve noticed a, well... a development that’s giving me cause for concern.”

“About whom?”

Anyone less familiar with his secretary wouldn’t notice the change in posture, but Gareth does. 

“You, sir.”

He quirks an eyebrow, genuinely confused. 

“I’ve noticed that you’re a little harsher than usual, sir.”

“That is intentional,” Gareth says at length. “You have to admit, it’s paying off.”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“But?”

She purses her lips. “It’s affecting morale.”

Gareth smiles at her diplomatic wording. “I’m aware. But this isn’t going to be permanent, Eve. I know what I’m doing.”

His statement seems to mollify her, yet she gives no indication of leaving. 

“Anything else?”

Eve shifts in the seat, clenching her hands into fists briefly. “Sir, I apologise if this is out of line, but I noticed that you’ve been drinking more than usual and I was worried that it might be developing into a problem.”

The line of enquiry takes Gareth by surprise. Of all things, this is the least of what he expected his secretary to mention. His mind quickly goes through the past few weeks but he fails to notice this pattern Eve is apparently referring to. His housekeeper is responsible for taking out the rubbish, including the two or three wine bottles a week. 

“Yes, Miss Moneypenny,” he speaks up eventually, and Eve swallows at his return to the formal form of address, “you’re definitely out of line. I’ve had more visitors to my office since September, as you above all people should be well aware. I assure you it’s not a problem you need to concern yourself with.”

The doubt is evident in her expression, but her apology sounds sincere and when she wishes him a good night on her way out of the office two hours later, her gaze only lingers on the tumbler next to him for a second. 

Gareth chuckles around a sip of Drambuie. He’s known a number of alcoholics in his life, and he is definitely not one of them.

~*~

The end of January comes with a palpable decrease in childish drama. Yet, as Gareth reckons, the universe has only shown lenience in that part of his life to be able to replace it with a conspiracy to make his days as annoying as possible.

People who should be taking his calls don’t (Bond, above all), and those he has no desire to talk to keep bugging him on a daily basis. Or twice, in Mrs Pryce’s case. 

“I’ll meet you at the cabin then, son.”

“I can’t take off,” Gareth repeats through gritted teeth. “I’ve got too much to do to go hunting. Take one of your mates with you. I’m sure Tom would love to rid the pond of any fish they hold.”

“Now listen to me, Gareth,” his father begins, reeling off the same complaints as always about his ungrateful offspring who can’t even schedule some time with his beloved old man in-between twiddling his thumbs and not giving him grandchildren. 

“Sir, I’ve got a meeting with the Prime Minister in fifteen minutes and I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now. Enjoy your weekend. We’ll talk soon,” he adds, and hangs up after his father’s grumbled goodbye. 

His excuse was total bollocks; though he does have a seemingly self-replenishing pile of work to get through. With a huff, he rises from his chair and makes his way down to Q-Branch where he finds the department head showing something to Mr Bennett, of all people. 

Gareth lingers in the background and listens as the quartermaster explains the gadget’s intricacies and only sounds slightly exasperated at Bennett’s questions. 

“I see you’ve moved past ignoring each others’ presence.”

Both men startle at the sudden interruption. Q squares his shoulders while his colleague looks like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit jar. 

“Q was providing information needed for this item’s file, sir.”

“No need to sound defensive, Mr Bennett,” Gareth assures him. “It’s good that you’re getting along better.”

It seems sufficiently reassuring for the man for now but he still beats a hasty exit. 

“It’s like any second he isn’t being productive is going to spell disaster,” Q remarks. “He still baffles me most days.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Gareth says carefully. He knows Bennett lost his direct superior because he didn’t follow protocol, but he doubts Bennett and Q are at a point in their working relationship yet that allows him to confide in the younger colleague. 

Gareth clears his throat, drawing Q’s attention. “Bond’s not taking my calls.”

The quartermaster averts his gaze and twirls the device he’s still holding in his hands. “Well, he says he’s not ready to requalify yet.”

“So he’s still stuck in denial? Splendid,” Gareth comments, his tone dry. “His sick leave is over, Q. We need to figure out how to proceed.”

Q pulls his glasses off with one hand and rubs at his eyes with the other as he heaves a sigh. “I know that. He knows that. I just… I can’t get through to him. He ignores everything I say on the matter.”

“I can’t wait forever.”

The younger man nods, though Gareth sees the concern in his eyes before he leaves. Hopefully Bond will see sense before he does something daft. Unfortunately, Bond being reckless and impulsive is not something Gareth expects to change anytime soon. 

It’s one more worry to add to an ever-growing list in Gareth’s mind that he cannot seem to get on top of no matter how long he stays at the office. They also have yet to find a connection between these seemingly random attacks – can’t even pin it on SPECTRE in good conscience, and Arthur isn’t as helpful as Gareth thought he would be – which gnaws at him enough that Saturday evening finds him on the sofa in his office, rereading files and hoping something will start to make sense. 

His private mobile rings in the pocket of his coat near the door. 

Gareth is in the middle of the brief and almost ignores it since it can only be his father asking him to come hunting after all. A lifetime of obeying the man wins out, however, so with a huff he pushes himself off the sofa. 

It’s not his father. 

“Hello, am I speaking to the son of Tristan Mallory?”

“Yes, ma’am. How did you get this number?”

“You’re listed as Mr Mallory’s emergency contact, sir. I’m a nurse at Ipswich Hospital.”

Gareth’s back connects with the wall as the implications dawn on him. 

He knows what happened even before the nurse tells him about Tristan’s heart attack at the hunting cabin and how A&E failed to resuscitate him. 

_Finally_ , is Gareth’s first thought, and he hates himself for it despite the pages upon pages of reasons he is able to list that would justify the sentiment. 

He loses the rest of the weekend to funeral arrangements and come Monday, every conversation he has is peppered with condolences that force him to act like a mourning son. The charade grates on his nerves and all the bloody things that require doing cut so badly into his schedule that Gareth doesn’t manage to seek Bond out and talk to him as he planned. 

The agent attends the funeral, along with hundreds of others, a blend of friends, acquaintances and sycophants. Even his ex-wife is there, looking well and like she is enjoying life. Mrs Pryce has a similar air about her, yet presumably that stems more from hoping his father’s death will aid her in her schemes. 

Gareth wonders if anyone would fault him for pushing the twat into the open grave. 

He doesn’t, in the end. But he does break open the bottle of E. Guigal Côte-Rôtie La Mouline that his father bought years ago, shortly after Barbara and he had married. 

“We need something to celebrate when she’s up the duff, son,” he said. 

Needless to say, they never got the chance. 

Gareth drains the entire bottle that night in the blessed solitude of his flat, and it tastes as cathartic as he hoped it would.

~*~

James sets the beer bottle down on the carpet next to his shoulder. His left hand is still caressing Linux, who has curled up on his sternum and is purring loud enough to drown out the hum of the oven in Q’s kitchen. 

He watches with a wary eye as Turing slowly approaches the bottle and sniffs. The cat seems seconds away from pawing at it, if only to annoy James who is loath to make any sudden movements that would startle the warm weight on his torso. 

The fact that his knee aches from his exercises has nothing to do with his reluctance. 

James snatches the bottle before Turing can do any harm and finds himself at the receiving end of two reproachful looks. 

“Tell your brother to leave my drink alone and I won’t have to move, darling,” James says, yet Linux continues to stare at him.

That’s how Q finds the three of them a few minutes later. 

“She looks good on you,” his partner says with a smile. 

It falters slightly when he sees the beer in James’s hand, but fortunately he spares him the lecture. Instead, Q drops to keel on the carpet next to the largest sofa and steals a kiss. Turing’s jealous meow prompts a laugh and soon, Q has a lapful of purring cat to call his own. 

James would love nothing more than remain on the floor in companionable silence for the rest of the evening, but if the past weeks have proven anything to him then it’s that life doesn’t bloody work that way. 

Tonight it only takes Q until the table is set to bring up the appointment for an assessment that James has been giving a two-fingered salute for two solid weeks. 

“With the funeral and everything, I reckon you’ll have a few more days of reprieve, James, but sooner or later you’re going to have to show up in M’s office. He also knows where you live, so he might just as well drop by one day.”

James grits his teeth. Any reply would only make him sound like a petulant child. 

He wishes he could simply suspend time, just for a bit. Long enough to get back in shape, have his sodding knee under control again. He’s close, he can feel it. No crutches, no brace; but he still tires too quickly to be let out into the field. 

At least Q finally stopped treating James like he might break and that night the quartermaster strips them both of their clothes and fingers himself open as James watches, stroking his own cock to hardness at the sight. Q sets a languid pace as he rides him, muscles and tendons shifting underneath his pale skin that James traces with his tongue and fingertips. 

“Promise me you’ll at least take M’s calls, love?” Q whispers after they are both clean and sated. 

To promise would be to lie, and lying to Q is the last thing he wants. So all he does is kiss the man breathless until they are too tired to think. 

Come morning, Q is preparing for work and James sees him off with a smirk and a kiss that tastes bittersweet on his lips. He waits half an hour, then rides the lift one level up to his own flat where he retrieves a duffel bag from underneath his bed. 

James leaves everything that might be traced, takes nothing but cash and a set of papers and credit cards he’s had made without telling MI6. 

_Q will understand_ , he assures himself, and goes off the grid.

~*~

Gareth passes one of Q’s minions on his way into the CNS building on Friday morning. 

“Tell Q I want him in my office, _now_.”

It comes out as more of a bark, like most of Gareth’s orders this week. He would feel bad but there’s no more room for such sentiments; all his energy seems to be fuelling anger and frustration these days.

People have started avoiding him. Gareth is mostly grateful for the way everyone darts out of his trajectory when he prowls the building – unless the behaviour extends to those he actually needs to talk to. 

At least Q appears promptly once summoned explicitly. 

Gareth merely arches an eyebrow at the quartermaster standing in front of him. He’s clever enough to infer which question hovers between them. 

“James isn’t here,” Q eventually says. His tone is almost defiant. 

“I can see that. It’s starting to become a genuine problem, Q. If the mountain won’t come to me, I suppose I will have to come to the mountain.” 

“No, sir – James isn’t…”

The young man refuses to meet his eyes and all of a sudden, Q’s demeanour over the past few days makes perfect sense. 

“He went dark.” 

Q gestures helplessly. “He knows all my tricks. There’s no trace of him.” 

“Of course there bloody isn’t,” Gareth snaps. “He’s one of our top agents even without you telling him every detail about your tech.”

He allows himself an exasperated groan, turning away from Q and resting his hands on his desk for a moment to reorganise his priorities, which now include his parents’ townhouse that has passed to him, as well as his father’s 1963 Austin Healey, both things he has no current use for. 

“We’ve enough nonsense to deal with without chasing shadows, so you’ll stop wasting valuable time doing so, is that clear?”

Q gapes at him. “Sir, I really must protest –”

“I’ve been where Bond is and I can assure you he won’t be found unless he decides he’s ready. Stop wasting your time looking, Q, at least at the office. We still haven’t figured out these attacks; five of our Double-ohs are currently immersed in highly dangerous missions and three more are due to leave within the next five days, so I suggest you make sure their equipment is ready.”

Q’s jaw snaps shut and it’s like his shutters close, for his expression becomes blank as he nods. He doesn’t stop to chat with Eve on his way out like he usually does, either – probably for the best, since Eve has been skiving lately. Yesterday she even forgot to include an appointment in his morning briefing, which rarely happens. 

Admittedly, Gareth might have been somewhat harsh in his reaction, but it still doesn’t excuse sloppy work. 

The day does not improve. 

Mrs Pryce calls for an update he doesn’t have and is even snider than he has become used to from the woman. 

“If you don’t get on top of this soon, the country will be bankrupted by all the additional security costs and there’ll be nothing left to protect,” is her latest reprimand and Gareth seethes silently. 

If looks had incendiary abilities, his would have lit his corkboard on fire long ago, and there would be no more clues left to consider during breaks from bureaucracy. 

He is doing just that, one arm in front of his chest while the other is holding a tumbler to his lips, when a knock pulls him from his pensive state. He knows it’s Eve before she even enters and he checks his clock, which bewilders him. It’s late and this is the Friday he thought her fiancé was due to return to London. 

“Shouldn’t you be home with Sam?” he wonders, narrowing his eyes. 

Usually so composed, Eve’s posture is tense. Her mascara is a bit smudged, almost as if she’s been dabbing at it with a tissue. For some reason, his question makes her jaw clench. 

“Sam’s staying longer. I mentioned it three days ago.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he asks, “Are you working late again?”

“No, sir.” 

It’s been a long time since Gareth has seen Eve like this – cold, almost confrontational. When she first started working for him, he would catch glimpses of this side of her, the trained agent whose default reaction is mistrust. 

Now that he really looks at his secretary, he notices other things that must have been there for longer without catching his attention – the wan colour of her face, the exhaustion written in every fibre of her body unless actively hidden. 

“Is everything all right?” he asks belatedly. 

“No, sir, it isn’t. And I’m here as a courtesy only.” She swallows and whatever indecisiveness Gareth saw has long since evaporated. “Working here used to bring me a great deal of joy, sir, but it’s been hellish for weeks now, and with what’s happening in my private life I found I simply can’t continue like this.”

Gareth frowns at her, utterly blindsided. “Miss –”

“No, sir,” she interrupts. “This has been a long time coming. You were only too distracted to see it.”

“See what?” Gareth asks, and nothing in this world could have prepared him for what follows. 

“I’m taking a leave of absence starting Monday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … so yeah. That happened. Thoughts? Reactions? 
> 
> Chapter 5 will follow on Wednesday!


	5. Bottoms up (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy with this chapter, so I hope you'll enjoy this as well :) 
> 
> Regarding chapter 6: I'm halfway finished, but my mother is coming to visit so I'd rather not make any promises. Should be up within a week and a half at the latest, though.

**_Five hours earlier_ **

“Sir, I need another signature.”

Gareth grumbles but accepts the pen from his secretary without actually sparing her or the document much attention. All of it is directed at the graphics his head of Analytics is presenting to him and remains there until Navya concludes her deliberations. 

“You called me down here and all you can tell me is ‘We still can’t even properly link it to SPECTRE’?” he remarks. 

Navya winces at his icy tone. “Sorry, sir. We’re doing everything we can –”

“Well, it’s not good enough, is it?” He rubs his temples, scanning the last graphic still blown up on the large screen. “I know what your team can do. I’ve seen you extrapolate hundreds of vital details from the SPECTRE files over a single weekend. You’re telling me the same people are currently failing even though they’ve had several bloody _weeks_ to do this job?”

She doesn’t protest, doesn’t make excuses. Navya simply gives him a curt nod and returns back to work. Gareth checks his pocket watch and curses under his breath; he barely has enough time to check in with Arthur before he has to be at Parliament. 

Since the day already is half a cock-up, he shouldn’t be surprised to be intercepted by an out-of-breath quartermaster seconds before he reaches Arthur’s office. 

“Sir –”

“I really don’t have the time, Q.”

“I found Bond!” he says, louder this time, and Gareth’s head whips around. “He’s in Cardiff; paid with a credit card I’ve been running a trace on. Seemed to be settling a tab, judging by the sum –”

“Spare me the details, please, just go.”

“I’m, uh, in the middle of –”

“Your shift, yes,” Gareth agrees. “But James Bond finally grew tired of playing hide and seek, and I’m sure your concentration will be absolute rubbish if you don’t go after him immediately, so please, Q, for the sake of my sanity, get in a car and go.”

The man smiles at him, only the slightest twitch of his lips, but his eyes have lit up at the prospect. Gareth watches him hurry down the winding staircase. He thought he’d be glad once Bond stopped his shenanigans, yet somehow Gareth only feels numb. 

_I should sleep more, maybe,_ Gareth thinks, then shakes his head and continues on his way.

~*~

**_Cardiff – three hours later_ **

The pub is half-empty at this early evening hour. The only guests are workers catching a quick pint before heading home, and a few groups of friends meeting up for tea and cake. 

It’ll be fuller and louder later, like every night there’s a game on the telly. James enjoys the Welsh hospitality and above all the house brew that the _Y Mochyn Du_ sells. 

“Another, mate?” the barman asks before James even crossed the space from his table to the bar. 

He shakes his head as he slides the empty glass towards Ianto who catches it and stows it into the dishwasher. 

“Double Penderyn.”

“Ha, said you’d like it, didn’t I?”

“Yes, your taste in whiskey is impeccable,” James agrees pleasantly. “And get me one more.” 

Ianto quirks an eyebrow as he pours the first order. “You expecting someone?”

James just gives him a smile. He settled his tab over three hours ago; Q will be here any moment. 

As predicted, the man walks through the door soon thereafter. From his place on the bench James has a good view of both the television and the door, as well as the bar to his right, which is what first catches Q’s attention. Ianto has been polishing the same glasses for ten minutes; at least he isn’t trying to be subtle about his curiosity. 

Q’s eyes widen when they land on him. All James has been doing for the past two weeks is working out and drinking, and it probably shows. 

His partner slides into the other leg of the bench, placing his bag in the corner as James pushes the tumbler closer to him. Q eyes it with suspicion, glances at Ianto who grins, then at James’s own drink. 

“Well, bottoms up,” Q says with a sigh, and drains the glass. 

James is still able to read him well, and he chuckles as his partner grimaces at the burn, then smacks his lips in surprise. 

Ianto emerges from behind the counter, all twenty-something enthusiasm and Welsh accent that manages to be charming where 009’s never was. 

“Can I get you another, mate?” 

“What happened to, ‘this is a fucking self-service establishment, sir’?” James quotes without any bite behind it. 

“Well, if there’s suddenly a bloke joining my most mysterious regular, I’d be daft not to do something when I got the time.”

Ianto’s bluntness is what James values about the kid. 

“Thanks, but I’m driving.” Q’s eyes flicker to James, unsure. “I am driving, aren’t I?”

James sucks in a breath but his mind is made up, so any sort of residual doubt will have to go ignored. He sees Q’s shoulders slump in relief when he nods. 

“Well, I got juice, or tea, if you’d like,” Ianto offers. “Another one for you, Jack?”

James hands him his tumbler with a nod as Q snorts at the alias, barely able to place his order, and thankfully Ianto doesn’t ask what’s so funny. 

The silence that enveloped them before their drinks arrive extends for several more minutes. James cannot take his eyes off Q the entire time, cataloguing the shadows under his eyes and the small cuts on his hands that mean he’s been helping Mr Bennett more than usual with his hardcopy files. He has a distinct set of claw marks near his right jaw, too, and the thought of Linux finally spurs him into speaking. 

“I missed you.” 

It comes out thick and raspy. Q’s chest rises with a sigh underneath his cardigan and shirt. 

“I missed you, too.” Q’s hands come up abruptly, then, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m also bloody cross with you, James.”

He twirls the glass in his hands. That James knew this was coming doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. 

After a beat, Q deflates visibly. “You found what you needed, then? Some retirement Yoda, or whatever?”

That startles a laugh out of James. “Retirement Yoda?”

“You’ve been so deep in denial I was glad you’re a certified diver.”

It takes James a beat to get the joke. “Because denial is a river in Egypt?”

“In your case it’s a sodding ocean,” Q quips back. His lips are twitching and the next moment he’s giggling like he always does when he finds his own jokes more humorous than the rest of the room. 

James’s heart clenches from how much he missed this awkward nerd and he’s moving before he can stop himself, closing the distance between them and swooping in for their first kiss in four weeks. 

It feels like taking his first breath after almost drowning, and James isn’t even being sentimental since he knows what drowning feels like in both the figurative and literal sense of the word. 

Q’s fingers dig into his arms as he kisses back after a sigh that holds too many emotions for James to name. He cups Q’s face and rubs a thumb over the light scruff that is dusting his lover’s cheek, pulling back enough to meet green eyes that sparkle with a blend of relief and glee. 

_I sound like a teenager,_ James realises, but finds he’s beyond caring at the moment. 

Q shuffles closer until he can wind his right arm around James’s torso effortlessly. Their bodies are pressed together from thighs to heads, with Q’s tugged between James’s shoulder and chin. 

“I get why you did this, but you’re still a tosser for it and if you ever do that again I’m changing the SmartBlood design and won’t tell you how to cancel the signal.”

James pulls Q closer towards him. 

“Oh, and prepare for the wrath Linux is going to unleash on you once you’re back at the flat. Well, after she ignores you for a week, I reckon.”

“Maybe I deserve it.”

“Yes, you bloody oaf,” Q snaps, pushing himself away from James who feels the absence like a missing limb. Q’s eyes are alight with anger again, and James braces himself. “You’re going to make up for this. I’m not expecting an apology here, because frankly, I don’t want you to lie about being sorry for something you obviously felt you had to do, but you’re a right wanker for waiting two bloody weeks to send me a postcard, damn you.” 

“Did you like the picture?”

“What, of the city I knew you’d visit? Where we still didn’t catch you?”

James smirks at Q’s scowl. His first stop was the nursing home where Kincade has been living for almost a year now. The way his partner aggressively drinks his orange juice does nothing to make the hurt professional pride any less adorable. 

“I didn’t find a retirement Yoda,” he eventually admits. “Came to my senses all on my own.”

“Is that so? Doing what?”

Q’s eyes dart to the bar, making his thoughts clear. 

“That, too,” James concedes. 

“I take it you’ve been keeping this pub in business?”

“And tipped enough so I can finally buy a new guitar,” Ianto butts in, placing a candle on the table with a wide grin. 

“I trained him well,” Q jokes, then his expression sobers as he holds the barkeeper’s gaze. “I’m also able to ruin your life if you mention whatever you might have heard or inferred over the past weeks to anyone.”

James has long since found out that Ianto is an impeccable judge of character. It’s why the young man asked James to keep an eye on the one drunk on his third day in Cardiff, and rewarded James’s intervention when the situation escalated with a free dinner the following evening. 

So it comes as no surprise when Ianto takes Q’s threat at face value, swallowing visibly and hurrying off after issuing a solemn promise. 

Eventually, James tells Q about the past four weeks, from his visit to Kincade to choosing Cardiff, and how he split his days between this pub and going to the gym, trying to whip his knee back into shape. 

“It didn’t work,” James admits through gritted teeth. The truth still pains him, though at least he is facing it now. “Five different trainers said I’m lucky I even have as much strength and motion back as I do.”

“So now, you…” Q prompts after James falls silent again. 

He takes a deep breath and looks his partner in the eye. “I’m not fit for fieldwork anymore. That’s all I know right now.”

“Good. We can figure out the rest together, love.”

Hearing Q put it into words mellows the knot inside his chest. Deep down he was certain Q would understand yet that didn’t stop the nightmares and all the worst case scenarios James’s mind came up with for plaguing the few hours of sleep he managed. 

“I love you,” James whispers into Q’s ear, then sits back, drains his glass, and gets to his feet. He extends a hand to the other man. “Let’s go home.”

~*~

_“I’m taking a leave of absence starting Monday.”_

Few things in Gareth’s life have ever caught him completely unawares. His mother’s death. Meeting Barbara. Being promoted to Double-oh status. Having his cover shattered and his future destroyed. Barbara filing for divorce. 

This announcement comes down on him like a bolt from the blue.

“Surely you’re overreacting, Eve,” Gareth says after a long moment of silence. “I have everything perfectly under control –”

“But you don’t!” Eve interrupts, her tone almost pleading as she abandons all pretences and diplomacy. “I’ve been a wreck for weeks and you didn’t even notice! A year ago you’d have seen there’s a problem and actually _talked_ to me, but right now it’s as if you don’t even see anyone anymore! You just don’t care about anything that’s not your job. It’s like you’ve gone partially blind and deaf, and every attempt I’ve made to get through to you went ignored. Even Mr Millstone’s at a loss. And frankly, I’m at the end of my tether.”

Her chest is heaving when she stops and her hands balled into fists at her side, level with the line of her belt. Gareth stares at her while his thoughts are flashing back, sifting through weeks and weeks to prove Eve is puffing up this entire situation way beyond its reality. 

Yet what he sees – barely, it’s like there is a filter over his memories – appals him. 

The months that followed losing all hope of ever returning to active duty have the same feel to them in his mind: obscured memories, tunnel vision. He never even noticed that Barbara began an affair with their wedding planner who sometimes hired his wife’s catering firm. 

Eve’s expression is one of vindication when he faces her again. He has no doubt the epiphany is written all over his features. 

“Oh, and I had a word with your housekeeper, sir.”

Apparently, Eve isn’t done yet. 

“She said you’re going through wine like bottled water. And that’s in addition to what you consume when you work late here.” 

She points to the side table holding the decanters, taking a step towards him as she does. 

“You might not see it, but the people around you do. And you might not think you have a problem at the moment, that you’re too clever or too responsible, and that there’s no way it will ever happen to you, but I’ve been doing a lot of reading and I’m telling you, sir – you’re going down a dangerous road.” She takes a deep breath. “That’s not an environment I want to subject myself to, especially with everything else that’s going on. So I won’t be here on Monday, or the day after. Not until the place I return to is somewhere I actually want to be.”

“Eve,” Gareth says at length, trying to untangle the pandemonium that is his mind. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t have a problem.”

His secretary arches an eyebrow. “Really. Well, do you drink every day?”

“That doesn’t mean –”

“Do you drink so you can fall asleep?”

“Well,” Gareth concedes, “I have been under a lot of stress.”

“Do you actually remember how many glasses you had today, sir, or yesterday?”

“Of course.”

Eve’s expression is challenging, so Gareth retraces his steps throughout the day. The current day proves little problem. Humouring Eve, he thinks back to the day before. 

Those memories are harder to pin down. 

Gareth can’t even say with any amount of certainty how many glasses of wine he had before feeling drowsy enough to head to bed. 

Something about the change in his thoughts must have shown in the lines of his face, since rather than storm out like Eve seemed moments away from, she remains in his office while Gareth feels his knees grow wobbly. Seven steps take him to the sofa onto which he lowers himself slowly.

He looks up at Eve and it’s like seeing her for the first time in months. 

“I’ve been a right pillock, haven’t I?”

Her steps are hesitant when Eve walks towards the sitting area. “I’m afraid so.”

“Sam’s been gone for a long time.”

“Going on three weeks now. Barely made it home for Christmas last year.”

Gareth wonders how he could have been so blind as to miss this; in retrospect Eve’s troubles are almost palpably obtrusive. 

“You’ve set a date,” he says, hoping it will prompt an explanation. He remembers something about an April wedding, which is barely two months from now.

Eve’s snort is dry as a desert. “Much good it’ll do us without a venue or, well… bloody anything, really.”

She winces, presumably thinking she said too much, yet somehow reluctant to stop now that she started. Gareth shuffles towards the side of the sofa, the invitation obvious. Eve glares at him for one seemingly endless minute, clearly torn between storming out and breaking down. She chooses the latter. 

Listening to the misery that has been the young couple’s wedding preparations allows Gareth to file his own issues away for a little while longer, but mostly it gives him the chance to salvage the shambles of his relationship with Eve. 

If he knows what the problem is, he’ll find a way to fix it; if he can fix this, maybe she won’t leave come Monday. 

“Why haven’t you hired a professional, Eve?” he asks when she falls silent. “Even without Sam’s constant travelling for the corruption scandal or your additional workload, it would have helped.”

“Don’t you think we tried?” Eve dabs at her eye with more force than probably necessary. “But every half-decent agency only cares about my surname. They all ended up catering to my parents’ wishes, and that’s the last thing Sam and I want. This is _our_ wedding, for Christ’s sake, not the social event of the year or a traditional _boda_ like his parents think we owe them.”

Gareth has produced his handkerchief before Eve has a chance to stand up and look for a disposable one. She accepts it after a beat, her eyes on the monogrammed initials in one corner. 

The old-fashioned custom is enough to make her lips curl ever so slightly. 

“Thank you.” She blows her nose in that quiet manner Gareth never mastered.

“It’s the least I can do.”

“Also not the last.” 

It seems to have slipped out before Eve could bite her tongue, but Gareth is already raising a hand and nodding dejectedly. 

“You… might have a point.” 

He hesitates only for a moment before deciding that providing some background might help Eve understand, if not forgive his behaviour of the past months. 

“The last time I was like this, after my injury, my wife left me. I didn’t fight hard enough and once it was all over I swore I’d never let things get so badly again.” He chuckles humourlessly. “I reckon I’m not as mature as I thought.”

Gareth clears his throat while Eve is twisting the corner of the hanky between her slender fingers. 

“I owe you an apology, Eve.”

“Damn right, you do,” she says under her breath, refusing to look up. 

“I owe you more than that. I should probably also apologise to half the bloody agency. And I will,” Gareth decides with finality. “And I’ll be there for you, if you still want me to. Although I could understand if you’re still planning on taking that leave on Monday. If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you. Just…”

He casts about for the right words but all interpersonal skills seem to have up and left with his pride. His flailing is enough to draw Eve’s gaze and Gareth could weep when he sees her expression has mellowed considerably. 

“Are you asking for another chance, sir?”

“Yes,” he breathes out. “I might also have an idea to solve the issue of your wedding.”

Eve quirks an eyebrow and Gareth interprets it as permission to continue. He watches the tension gradually leave Eve’s shoulders the more he explains and reassures, until she’s blowing her nose again, only this time for happier reasons. 

“Does this mean I’ll still have a secretary next week?” Gareth dares. 

Eve considers him for a moment. “If you’re genuinely willing to make this right, then I might be inclined to stay.”

“Well, I might need an outsider’s perspective every once in a while… Maybe you’d like to help?”

It goes against every instinct Gareth has, which are insisting he’ll be able to do this on his own, that he’s still very much in control and that Eve is exaggerating something of little actual concern. The analytical part of his mind, however, identifies the impulse as the lie it is. 

His question surprises Eve enough to render her speechless. It passes after a few seconds, and he witnesses her first tentative smile in weeks. 

“We can start right away, sir. It’s not like my fiancé is waiting for me at home.”

Gareth has to stifle the immediate sense of unease that claws at his chest. He concentrates on the honorific Eve used instead. 

“In that case, I propose you call me Gareth, if we’re doing this. Outside the office, of course.”

She accepts his offer with something close to a smile, and for the first time in weeks, Gareth feels something that might be happiness.

~*~

Q doesn’t let go of James’s hand as they enter the lobby of their building, which is unusual since Q is the first to advocate against public displays like this. Right now, however, his need to make sure James is still there seems to override his sense of propriety.

“Welcome back, Mr Sterling,” Michael greets them warmly as they pass the reception, and James would stop for a bit of small talk if he hadn’t been apart from Q for four weeks and weren’t really looking forward to being in the same bedroom as his lover. 

“You should’ve been more obvious, James, I don’t think he quite got the message,” Q deadpans in the lift. 

“This obvious enough for you?” James purrs as he crowds Q against the wall and starts nuzzling his jaw. 

“Hm, I’m afraid you’ll need to elaborate a bit more.”

James pulls back enough to smirk at his partner, yet before he can do anything else, a _ding_ announces their arrival on their floor. 

As soon as Q opens the door, however, all immediate plans for reacquainting himself with every patch of Q’s skin are put on hold by the armful of mini-Q that throws itself at James. 

He barely stops the reflex to take the assailant down and remains rooted to the spot until long after Farid has stepped back. 

“It’s so bloody good to see you again, guv! And fuck you by the way for just up and leaving like a fucking coward, but I reckon it’s all good now, innit? You missed so much, though, I got no idea where to start; oh, you guys hungry? Been stress eating all night and there’s still some, I don’t even know; it’s food, that’s what counts, right?”

“Slow down, kid,” James says as soon as Farid _finally_ pauses to breathe. 

“Sorry, just – you’re back!”

“Obviously,” James says, tone dripping with as much sarcasm as he can squeeze into four syllables. 

Q, meanwhile, is shaking his head at Farid’s antics, but his eyes are emanating so much fondness that it cancels out any pretend annoyance. 

“Oi, you want some tea?”

“You made us tea?” James can’t help wonder. 

Farid grins. “Been tracking your route since you left Cardiff. You really let Q drive, though? He’s way worse at it than me, I’m telling ya –”

“Hands off my car,” James interrupts. 

If he had a pound for every time he said the exact same thing, he might have been able to settle his tab in cash today.

Farid throws his hands up. “All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist, guv, just pointing out that I saw that red light he ran –”

“It was green,” Q butts in, returning from the kitchen area with two mugs of still steaming tea. 

James refuses to find the gesture adorable and lets the kid and Q bicker about whatever perceived traffic violations Farid saw him commit and resolves to never, ever allow himself to get into a situation again that requires Q behind the wheel of his Aston Martin. His driving is atrocious, Farid does have a point. 

Sipping his tea, James ambles over to where Linux and Turing are curled up on the sofa, watching him approach.

“I’m back?” he probes, but other than a brief twitch of her ears, Linux’s only reaction is to close her eyes and shift until all James sees is her furry back. 

Huh. James frowns, then notices Turing’s gaze. Are cats able to look smug? 

Behind him he hears Farid has changed the topic to what Q missed by, apparently, dashing off in the middle of his shift, talking at a speed James finds hard to keep up with after four weeks of absence. 

Right now is not the moment to practice his tolerance, however. James steps up behind Q, slinging an arm around his lower back and resting his hand on the other man’s hip. He caresses the hipbone through the layer of cotton and calculates how long it will take Farid to run out of steam and notice that he’s the only thing standing in the way of some very overdue sex. 

“- and M’s been getting worse while you were gone, guv, it’s been horrible! You’d better be a good omen or I think Eve’s gonna lose her marbles, seriously. And Wenham’s not helping matters either, but he’s got this ‘suffering in silence’ sorta thing going on; I guess that’s,” Farid stops as his eyes swivel back down to James’s hand. “Shit, I’m totally keeping you from reunion shagging, right?” 

James can feel Q’s chuckles against his side. He has a hard time keeping his face blank if only to annoy the kid, who blushes and raises his hands. 

“Sorry, I’ll get outta your hair.” He steps back, almost trips over his own feet, then seems to rethink his retreat and rushes forward again, this time hugging both of them. 

“I’m so glad you’re back!” he cheers again, before exiting the flat in a rush. 

James lets his head fall onto Q’s shoulder. “What’ve we ever done to get custody of that kid?”

“I’m afraid that’s mostly on you,” is Q’s reply. “I only saved him once, and the second time you even took a bullet for him.”

James is about to grumble in pretend offense when Q disentangles himself from his arms, though only to turn around and seek his gaze. For several contented seconds they just look at each other, and a peaceful calm settles in James’s chest at the feeling of _coming home_. 

“Linux hates me,” he points out. 

“Well, you spent weeks spoiling her with attention and then you were gone. You’re going to have to work very hard to win her over again.”

“What about you?” James whispers as he steers Q towards the kitchen counter and presses close once the other’s back meets the edge. 

He traces the rise and fall of Q’s Adam’s apple with his eyes. When his partner speaks, his voice has dipped lower and is full of innuendo. 

“Well, I can think of several things for you to do your due penance.”

James wastes no time sealing their lips and crowding closer until they’re touching chests to thighs. For a long time all they do is kiss, mapping out reactions and preferences that have dimmed in their minds with James’s absence, until temptation wins and Q arches his back, rubbing the hardening line of his erection against James’s own. 

James slides his hands down Q’s back and kneads the pert flesh of his arse for a bit until Q understands and prepares for James lifting him effortlessly. The strength behind the movement jostles Q forward against James’s chest and when he sees them again, his green eyes have darkened with obvious arousal. 

“I see the time in the gym paid off,” Q gasps, sounding slightly dazed which James finds quite satisfying. 

He goes so far as to carry Q into the bedroom, toeing the door shut behind him, but instead of putting the man down he remains standing, Q’s legs wrapped around his middle and hands he’s been fantasising about for four weeks clutching his shoulders while they continue kissing each other breathless. 

“I need you in me, James,” Q says around a soft moan when James rolls his hips up. “It’s been so bloody long, just, _please_ …”

Even James’s self-control has limits, and Q practically begging in that raspy voice of his never fails to shatter his reins. They undress each other in uncoordinated hurry but James draws out the preparations, reverently licks a stripe up Q’s erection and buries his nose in the curls at the base of his cock, savouring the scent he almost forgot in the weeks he was gone. 

Soon, however, the persistent throbbing of his own arousal spurs him into slicking himself up. He wants to tease initially, yet Q’s glare and the heels digging into his lower back make him give up on finesse. He still breaches Q slowly, the reality so much better than any of his fantasies could ever be. 

Once they’ve found a rhythm, both of them are reluctant to increase their pace. James wonders how long they can hold onto this languid flow of heat and passion because he never ever wants it to end. 

It’s his knee that makes that impossible. Kneeling, even on a soft mattress, takes its toll, so James shifts and rolls them over until Q is on top. A bit of manoeuvring and they’re both sitting up, with Q straddling him as James thrusts up into the heat of his body. The new angle means it’s easier to hit Q’s prostate and James aims for it with every forceful thrust until Q’s shaking both from them and the sparks the contact sends through his body. 

Q’s cock rubs against James’s abdomen, leaving behind a trail of precome. A sudden bout of inspiration has James sit up straighter and pull Q closer towards him until Q’s erection is trapped between their torsos, counterpoint movements chasing shivers up and down Q’s spine and pulling the most delicious sounds from his throat. 

Only years of practice allow James to keep his own orgasm at bay until Q’s nails dig into his skin and he breaks their latest kiss with a groan, spilling his release between them. James finally surrenders, his face buried in the nape of his lover’s neck as his climax crashes over him like a wave.

They stay like this, intertwined and locked together, for a long, long time, drying fluids be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did!
> 
> PS: Y Mochyn Du is an actual pub in Cardiff and I had a lovely time there! Ianto is fictional, though, but both the pub’s house brew and Penderyn whiskey are highly recommendable.


	6. Firework

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will come a day when my second (or even third) chapter count estimate will be correct. Today is not that day^^  
> This chapter was being difficult until I cut my epilogue plans, which now get their own update. RL permitting, the epilogue should follow very soon! 
> 
> Some important notes:  
> \- Q and Farid’s techno babble is inspired by something I saw on Blacklist, so no guarantees that it’s actually accurate. Don’t try it at home?  
> \- The [UK Trident programme](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UK_Trident_programme) exists; it encompasses the development, procurement and operation of the current generation of British nuclear weapons. It might be discontinued.  
> \- “ARA Securicor” is not a real private security firm. However, Securicor used to be a London-based firm that amalgamated with a Danish group, forming G4S who are making more than $12 billion a year…

The house Barbara calls home is not very different from the one she shared with Gareth, once upon a time, if only in a slightly more prestigious neighbourhood. The Saturday morning sunlight catches in the plaque near the doorbell, and Gareth hopes the unexpectedly good weather is an indication of how the day will go. 

His ex-wife takes the sudden visit in stride. 

“I hope you don't mind babies,” she says, leading the way through a tastefully decorated hallway. 

“Did I interrupt your grandma duty?” Gareth winces, yet Barbara smiles indulgently. 

“I see Tristan told you about Trish.”

She introduces him to the infant currently growing fussier with every second that passes without food, but Barbara had the bottle practically ready when the doorbell rang and soon all three of them have relocated to the living room with tea and formula respectively. 

The room is the same kind of understated opulence that Barbara has always appreciated, though with more family pictures peppered about the shelves and the intricately carved mantelpiece. 

“So tell me, Gareth, to what do I owe this surprise visit?” 

He chooses his words carefully. Barbara might be perfectly welcoming, but he can see the frown she is trying to fend off hovering at he edge of her features.

“I came to ask a favour.” She must have inferred as much, for she doesn't react. “Of you and your husband, actually.” 

That prompts a surprised blink. “Are congratulations in order?” 

Gareth shakes his head with a chuckle. “Not for me, but for someone dear to me.” 

He begins with Sam and how his foray into investigative journalism necessitates him spending weeks upon weeks travelling, effectively saddling Eve with the brunt of the wedding planning. Then comes the hard part.

“Things at work have been… stressful,” Gareth says. “I share the blame for not paying attention to Eve, for not realising that, with her fiancé gone, things couldn’t be easy.” 

He sees the empathy in Barbara’s eyes, yet her air only changes from willing to decisive when Gareth explains Eve’s parents own one of the most influential real estate agencies in England and don’t share their daughter’s ideas about her special day. 

“They will be allowed to dole out invites,” Gareth mentions, just to ensure the prestige this wedding will be endowed with comes across, “but both Eve and Sam want it to be a wedding, not the party of the month.”

Barbara agrees, and Gareth breathes a sigh of relief. 

Twenty minutes and two calls later, they are on the way to Fitzgerald & Rory, her husband’s wedding planning agency. Eve is going to join them and Barbara called ahead to inform Sebastian and his business partner Leonard. 

“And how are you, Gareth? And if you say you're fine, I'll get Trish here to spit up on you,” Barbara adds with a nod to the baby in the pram.

He chuckles despite himself. “Well... It's complicated.” 

“Because of something you did?” 

“Why is your first impulse to blame me?” 

“Because you have a tendency to solve everyone else's problems before tackling your own. And because you look like sleep is something you read about other people doing.” 

Even after more than fifteen years apart, she still knows him well. Presumably since he really hasn’t changed as much as he thought. 

“I... I might have bollocksed up a few things.” 

Barbara keeps her eyes on Trish. “Beyond repair?” 

“I hope not.” 

“Well, saying you're sorry goes a long way.” 

The look in her eyes betrays the double meaning of her sentence and Gareth nods serenely. 

“I probably should, this time.” 

The agency's office takes up all three floors of a white townhouse, whose décor oscillates between lush and the clean, modern style Gareth despises. Scattered across the walls are pictures upon pictures of happy couples smiling at the camera, names on small signs underneath them, with the centremost of them depicting Prince William and Kate on their special day. 

Not all photographs speak of wealth, Gareth is glad to note, though he does recognise some familiar faces. 

Sebastian Fitzgerald has aged since Gareth last saw him. Then again, that day lies almost two decades in the past and Sebastian was wearing considerably less clothing than he is now. His smile seems congenial, however, if a tad wary. Gareth can't but respect him for acting mature in the face of the rather curious situation they find themselves in. 

“Mr Mallory,” Sebastian greets him, “nice to be formerly introduced this time.” 

“Mr Fitzgerald. Thank you for agreeing to meet.” 

“Well, I could never resist the combined force of a bride in need and my wife's orders,” the man jokes, and Gareth sends his ex a grateful glance.

Once Eve arrives, they are joined by Leonard, whom Gareth matches to one of the pictures in the hallway where he was clasping hands with a veritable wall of muscle in a matching suit.

“My husband, Michael, is our event technician of choice,” Leonard explains as he follows Gareth’s questioning gaze. “Shall we look at some venue options?” 

By the time Eve and he leave the office, the weight of the past few months seems to have been lifted off her, at least partially. 

“Thank you, Gareth.” 

“I suppose it's the least I can do.” 

“You didn't have to foot the bill.” 

“Only for their services. It was my suggestion, after all.” 

They spend lunch together as well, and Gareth feels some of the easy companionship that characterised their relationship in the past gradually seep back into their interactions. It makes him feel emboldened enough to broach the subject that has been lurking at the back of his mind.

“Am I going to see you on Monday? Have I earned another chance?” he wonders as they part ways. 

Eve considers him for several long moments, angling her body back towards him. Her nod is only a tender relief, for she enunciates her agreement immediately. “But I swear, sir, if you just go back to how things were before...”

“Then I'll sign off on paid leave myself, Eve. Just...” Gareth averts his eyes briefly. “Be patient. And maybe nudge me every once in a while when you see I'm veering off course.” 

“Can I get that in writing, sir?” she quips, effectively breaking the rather sombre mood. 

Gareth's steps are lighter that day. He makes a point to actively track his alcohol consumption this weekend, and the results are... worrying, if he is being frank. He'll have to keep an eye on that. 

It nags him enough to make him decline the drink Arthur offers him when Gareth visits him on Sunday in the privacy of his home, aiming to coordinate his apologetic endeavours with his colleague. 

“I'm glad she got through to you, Gareth. I was starting to really worry about you.” Arthur pauses before kindly changing the subject. “Any word on your wayward agent?” 

“Oh, yes - Q called me last night,” Gareth volunteers. “Bond will be in my office first thing tomorrow.” 

They have long since established which directions the man’s future career at the agency might take, if Bond wishes to remain, so they can swerve to less official topics until Gareth takes his leave. 

The picture catches his eye on the way out. 

“Oh, that's my oldest son,” Arthur explains. “Going on their ten-year wedding anniversary.” 

“That's nice,” Gareth hears himself saying. 

He must have bidden his farewell after that but he barely remembers getting to his office and retrieving the corkboard to check what his mind thinks it has uncovered.

The puzzle piece fits, and that is half the problem.

The other half is that, so far, his theory is nothing but conjecture. He needs help if he wants to actually prove anything. 

Help takes the form of a bored Farid Haddaoui who is suffering through one of the most uneventful Sunday shifts in the history of MI6. 

“You want me to _what_?!” the young man exclaims in the – thankfully soundproof – walls of MTAC. 

“Access the financials of ARA Securicor. They are a private security firm and a major contractor to the British and other governments.” 

His explanation doesn’t stop Farid from mimicking a goldfish. “Uh, sure thing, sir... May I ask, uh, why?” 

Gareth purses his lips. “I think some of the unclassified attacks of the past few months might have been orchestrated.” 

“By private security firms?” 

“I know it sounds less than likely, but imagine how much this sector would stand to profit from perpetually heightened threat levels in Europe and around the globe. The amount of money our government’s having to shell out to enable the upcoming assembly of the UN committee on proliferation alone is staggering.” 

The boy contemplates his words for a moment. “So you saying that there's a, what, a conspiracy?” 

“Maybe.” 

“How the fu- I mean, how'd you get that idea? It's pretty bonkers, sir, you gotta give me that.” 

Gareth clears his throat before fixing Farid with a stern look. He knows how contrived delineating his thought process will come across. “Millstone’s son. He married Rosalind Archer, the CEO of ARA Securicor.”

Farid blinks. “And?”

Gareth folds his arms. “Mr Haddaoui, my instincts are the reason I’ve survived for as long as I have, and my instincts are telling me there is a connection. Now will you be a good employee and help me figure out if my gut is right, or will you continue to gape at me?”

The effect is immediate. Farid startles and practically flies across the room to the nearest workstation.

~*~

Being nervous is not a sentiment James is prone to. Though as it seems, exceptions really do prove the rule. 

“You should probably get out of the car, love.”

James doesn’t need to glance to where Q has remained in the passenger seat to know he’s trying to fend off a fond smile. 

“It’s going to be all right, James. M promised you a position; he’s not going to go back on his word.”

His responding “I know” comes out raspy. Q covers his hand on the steering wheel with his own and for a moment, they just sit inside his Aston Martin. Q’s quiet support helps soothe the unease locking James’s joints in place and with a huff of breath James opens the driver door. 

“Please find me once you’re finished,” Q murmurs against his lips later, as the lift rises from the garage to the office floors. “I doubt I’ll get any work done till then, but I’ll be in my office.”

“So you haven’t been planning on listening in?” James asks, only half in jest. 

“M’s office isn’t bugged.” At James’s quirked brow, Q grumbles, “And no, I’m not going to access the microphone of any of your mobile devices. Even if it’d only take a minute and no one’d notice…”

James chuckles at the disgruntled expression on his lover’s face; reaching this decision has clearly been a struggle. 

“I’m proud of how much you value your boss’s privacy.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I promise I’ll beam down as soon as Mallory releases me,” James vows and leans in for a kiss before Q can argue. 

They part ways in front of the door to the antechamber. James spies Eve at her desk through the clear lines marring the foggy glass and something about her posture catches his attention. 

“How are you, Miss Moneypenny?” 

Eve’s smile is heartfelt, if a bit tired. “Improving.”

Guilt tugs at James’s chest. He missed her as well during his hiatus, and he feels like several monumental developments eluded him. Her expression tells him she isn’t holding a grudge, yet James thinks he should really start remembering how many people have become important to him in his life. 

“We’ve some catching up to do,” is what James settles on saying. “Dinner?”

Eve’s smile widens. “Only if you’re cooking.”

“Naturally.”

On the next exhale, James turns toward the double doors behind which Mallory’s office looms, squaring his shoulders and trying to brace himself for what’s to come. 

“You’re four minutes early.” 

“Q insisted.”

“He does that,” Eve quips. “Want me to wait a bit before I tell him you’re here?”

James ignores how the dull ache in his knee suddenly intensifies. At least psychosomatic pain is something that’s familiar to him. He swallows once, twice, then gives Eve a curt nod. Despite everything, it still feels like signing his own death sentence. 

Mallory rises from his position behind his desk when James enters. The man’s eyes dart down his body but they don’t linger, apparently satisfied with his gait. It’s only nine o’clock, so walking poses no difficulty to James. Yet.

“Bond. You’re looking better than I expected,” is M’s way of greeting, motioning towards one of the chairs in front of the file-laden desk. 

James can’t bite back his own observation. “You look like hell. Sir.”

“It’s been an… eventful weekend.” Mallory’s lips curl pleasantly. “As I gather from your presence, you’ve accepted that you can’t return to active duty?”

“Yes.” 

It doesn’t even come out too bitter. Q would be proud.

“And I take it you have no desire to retire completely?”

James refuses to dignify that with a reply. Judging by the spark in Mallory’s eyes, the man approves. 

“I’ve spoken with all necessary instances, and can offer you an alternative I believe you will genuinely like. Or grow to like, given time.” 

Mallory shifts in his chair, prompting James to straighten his spine as well. He refuses to acknowledge the erratic beating of his heart. 

“As you might have guessed,” M continues, “I’m going to offer you a teaching position. You’ll have to complete some further training, yet Mr Lattimer was positively surprised by you during your suspension and doubts that will pose too much of an obstacle.”

James finds himself nodding. The thought occurred to him during his visit with Kincade. Mallory is a sneaky bastard when he wants to be, exploiting James’s punishment like that. 

In retrospect, he might even be grateful. Not that he will ever admit to the fact. 

“The second part of my offer,” Mallory goes on, “also comprises something you’ve done before, only in a less official capacity.” 

He pauses for effect. James bites his tongue and forcibly schools his features to hide his interest. 

“In addition to your teaching obligations, we’d like to keep you on as a consultant to Q-Branch, providing feedback and testing new tech.”

James’s inner eye immediately reels off a quick agglomeration of scenes – playing about with guns and explosives, watching the minions in action, grabbing lunch for Q and himself, finally seducing Q in his office – and he knows before Mallory even takes his next breath that the offer is everything he could have hoped for, given the circumstances. 

“Do you need to think it over, Bond?”

“No,” he rasps, then clears his throat and repeats, clearer this time, “I accept.”

Mallory’s reaction isn’t a soft curl of his lips or a fond twinkle in his eyes, but a genuine smile. James never thought the man to be this invested in his retirement plans, yet he has to admit it’s oddly touching. 

James has to make a quick visit to Human Resources to hash out all necessary details about his new contract – he doesn’t mind the dock in pay that comes with the absence of danger bonuses so central to his Double-oh payslips – before he commandeers a lift. It doesn’t quite _beam_ him down to Q-Branch, though it gets him there.

He doesn’t sweep the main room for Farid because the kid spent most of Sunday morning annoying him with text messages about how incredibly bored he was at work, so he’s probably celebrating his free day with sleeping in and playing video games or something. Instead, James heads straight for Q’s office. 

His partner is on his feet and across the room mere moments after the door clicks shut. 

“And?” 

James has adopted a blank expression, though upholding it in the face of pleading green eyes and his lover’s frantic tone proves difficult. 

“Stop it, James, or I swear to God you’re sleeping on the sofa for a week.”

He quirks an amused eyebrow. “You do recall that I have a flat of my own, don’t you?”

“I’ve been fretting for an hour,” Q grouses, “how am I supposed to come up with valid threats?”

“You could’ve planned ahead.”

“Shut up and bloody tell me already, you git.”

It’s the insult that cracks James’s resolve and his face splits into a heartfelt grin. Q listens raptly as he explains the new arrangement, then explodes into movement, throwing his arms around James’s shoulders and pushing close. 

“Imagine all the office sex we’re going to have,” James purrs against the shell of Q’s ear. 

Q’s chuckles reverberate against James’s chest. “Oh, you say that as if you’re sure I’m willing to indulge that particular fantasy.”

James pulls back. “You’re not?”

Q pauses. “Judgement pending,” he decides, and pulls James into a kiss by his tie.

He rarely allows himself to relax into moments of affection in public like he does now, but James reckons he’ll have to begin shedding his constant vigilance at some point. Might as well get a head start. 

Their passionate snogging would have continued indefinitely if it weren’t for Q’s phone blaring the chorus of _Firework_.

“Shit, that’s Farid’s ringtone,” Q curses, disentangling himself from James’s grasp and ruffling through his pockets for his phone. 

James has yet to get the story behind Farid’s affinity for that particular Katy Perry song out of either his partner or the kid. 

Q’s brow furrows as he listens to his protégé’s voice on the other end. “Well, if they used a ripple exchange, they’re bound to have used a cryptographic extension at the protocol level…” Q bites his lip. “I’d use a two-tier laundry service after, that’s as secure as you can get, but not all of those are trustworthy; you might have some luck there.”

From his limited understanding of computer sciences, all James is able to infer from that is that it’s about rendering money transferals untraceable. Or at least he thinks so. 

Q has caught James gaze and complies with the unspoken request, switching the conversation on speaker. 

“Why the hell are you asking me this, Farid? Are you in trouble?”

 _“No, guv, I swear,”_ comes the kid’s voice. _“I really can’t say, so please don’t ask me. You gotta trust me, I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”_

Q and James exchange a look. 

“Fine, but as soon as you’re able you’ll explain this, understand?”

_“Course! Thanks, boss! Gotta go.”_

James sees his own worry mirrored in the lines of Q’s features.

~*~

The clock reads 4:28am on Tuesday morning when Farid’s excited cry startles both Gareth and Navya. 

He would have asked Q for assistance, yet the quartermaster’s absence wouldn’t have gone unnoticed and Gareth can’t risk exposure this far into solving the mystery. Their head analyst is just as qualified to transform large amounts of data into presentable evidence. 

Farid is positively bouncing when he comes to a stop next to Gareth, who isn’t sure if that is due to what he uncovered or the frankly indecent amount of Red Bull the young man consumed in the past forty-eight hours. 

“Things are about to get _rank_ , guv,” Farid says, the words coming out so fast that Gareth has trouble discerning individual ones. “I traced the latest flow of money – quite brilliant, actually, they converted the fiat currency to ecash and bitcoin –”

“English, please,” Gareth interrupts, though the boffin barely pauses for breath during his explanation, which concludes with a chilling prospect. 

“A car bomb?” Gareth repeats. 

“I swear, guv, uh, sir, I mean – that’s what the last purchases of all those accounts amount to, I’m serious.”

“Where are the buyers based?” Navya asks. 

Farid cringes. “I gotta point out that this is a best guess ‘cause they’re bouncing their signal off a million different proxy servers, but I’ve triangulated their position as much as I could…” 

“Where, Haddaoui?” Gareth gripes. 

“England, sir.”

Gareth’s blood freezes in his veins. “You said they’d have had all the necessary parts yesterday.” 

Farid nods, trepidation evident in his expression. Navya curses in what sounds like Hindu under her breath. 

Gareth releases his as everything slots into place in the blink of an eye with startling clarity. 

“The Prime Minister.”

“Wha’?”

“The PM’s on his way to a meeting with anti-proliferation activists today. We know ARA’s targets are always connected to nuclear defence systems or power plants. Striking today will play right into their hands,” Gareth explains and he can see the exact moment it clicks in Navya’s mind.

“Public opinion’s going to turn and the government will extend the Trident programme after all –”

“And the private security firms involved in protecting the nukes keep swimming in cash, got it,” Farid finishes for her. 

In the time it has taken the two to catch up, Gareth has formulated a plan of action. The adrenaline coursing through his system is the sweetest thing he experienced in a long time. 

“Here’s how we’re going to proceed,” Gareth announces. “The two of you will continue your work to make our findings presentable. I’ll call in Q to help. The PM’s going to be in that car at 8.15am at the latest, so we have enough time to find that bomb.”

Navya’s forehead crinkles, a bright blue lock of hair falling into her eyes. “If we go through official channels, Millstone’s going to hear about it and who knows what he’ll do.”

Gareth smirks at the woman. “Which is why I’m sending Bond.”

“He’ll love that, guv!” Farid grins, which has Gareth roll his eyes since he didn’t chose the former Double-oh out of sentiment, but because Bond will get the job done covertly without raising any flags. 

His quartermaster sounds as groggy as Gareth would expect at five o’clock in the morning, though both he and his partner are fully alert in a matter of moments. With Bond on his way to find the bomb and the computer aficionados working on rendering their findings comprehensible, Gareth contacts Mrs Pryce. Allowing this operation to go completely below the Committee’s radar would only open him up to accusations and intrigue, after all. The chairwoman makes up for what she lacks in respect for Gareth with integrity and a deeply rooted love for England; they can trust her with this. 

If he gets to impress her with his findings, then that is merely an amiable side effect. 

Seeing Mrs Pryce in her nightie and dressing gown on the secure video feed? Not as much. 

“How does Mr Millstone play into all this?” Pryce asks after a long silence following Gareth’s explanations. 

“We’ve uncovered communiqués between him and his daughter-in-law that seem to be written in code. They coincide with monetary transfers to an offshore account Arthur established seven years ago.” Gareth huffs. “He might not be a complete snitch, ma’am, but he’s involved.”

Pryce rubs her hands across her face with a sigh. “You’re telling me the director of MI5 was motivated by something as crude as _greed_?”

“Another person is allowed to draw from the offshore account,” Gareth says. “The woman in question is a single mother of a six-year-old daughter. It’s nothing but a theory, ma’am, but I believe Arthur is the father and that the mother might have blackmailed Arthur into paying her large sums of money. Intel suggests she has a rather expensive drug habit and lifestyle preferences.”

For the first time since knowing her, he hears Mrs Pryce swear under her breath before drawing a conclusion Gareth himself has arrived at. 

“She would have found out about the pregnancy just as the Home Secretary was considering Millstone as director of MI5. Ambition seems to have made him its slave in the end.”

“So it would seem,” Gareth agrees. 

Mrs Pryce inhales at length before squaring her shoulders and meeting his gaze again. “You better record the next bit, since I doubt I’m ever going to repeat it.” She pauses for effect. “Good work, M.”

He allows himself a smirk. “Thank you, ma’am.”

By the time the chairwoman arrives at the CNS building and joins them in MTAC, Bond has gained access to the last garage holding potential vehicles for the PM’s journey. Which car will be used isn’t fixed, mostly to avoid just what they are currently trying to prevent, meaning either the chauffeur or another civil servant has to be on ARA’s payslip. 

“Or SPECTRE,” Q interjects, never pausing his typing. “Some of these contacts have been connected to the organisation, albeit loosely.” 

“Not helping, love,” Bond’s voice comes over the line, sounding as if the former agent is once again on his front, inspecting the underside of a car. 

Farid, muttering to himself and working at a speed Gareth found staggering even for a kid his age, whipped up a quick gadget for Bond that scans a vehicle’s interior, which is easing the search considerably. 

Not for the first time in the past forty-eight hours, Gareth wonders if Haddaoui deserves a rise in salary. 

“Oh.”

Everyone in the room tenses at Bond’s uncharacteristically sombre remark. 

“What is it?” Q asks. 

“It’s already live.”

“How’s that possible!” Pryce gasps and even Q’s head snaps up from his keyboard. 

Gareth ignores everyone in favour of asking Bond to describe the device. This would be infinitely easier if they had a visual, though judging from the components the bomb makers acquired, the risk of interference from the signals necessary to establish a connection has been deemed too high. 

“Listen carefully, Bond,” Gareth says after a beat. “There’s not enough time for evac, so we can’t detonate it.” Despite the early hour, the government building on top of the garage already holds too many potential casualties. “You’ll have to disarm it manually.”

“I’m better at using them, sir,” is Bond’s attempt at a quip, though it’s too terse to lighten anything, let alone the mood. 

“I’m going to talk you through it, Bond.”

Gareth can feel everyone’s eyes swivel to him. 

Q is the first to speak up, his voice betraying his doubt. “I thought the IRA specialised on homemade nail bombs, not sophisticated remotely-triggered contraptions like that.”

“I didn’t learn this during the Troubles, Q.”

“Sir,” the quartermaster tries to argue, but Gareth talks over him. 

“I know what I’m doing,” he snubs, then starts instructing James to prove his promise. 

The tension in the room is palpable, mounting around Gareth as he keeps his tone calm. Q’s entire body is rigid while Haddaoui has begun to tremble and Pryce is shifting nervously from one heel to the other. He doesn’t blame them – Navya is the only person in this room who is aware he used to be a highly trained Double-oh. 

When Bond executes the final step, however, even Gareth holds his breath. 

Two seconds later, a sigh echoes via the comms, and both Q and Farid give varying expressions of relief. 

“Bomb disarmed,” Bond confirms. 

“Just in time for Millstone’s arrival,” Navya informs them, one eye on the CNS’s internal surveillance feeds. 

Gareth exchanges a look with Pryce, who nods. They wait until Navya confirms Arthur is in his office, then make their way to the room after leaving instructions to finish processing the evidence. 

“Care to explain why I just had to help diffuse a bomb on the Prime Minister’s car?” 

Gareth wonders if he’ll be able to laugh at Arthur’s startled expression in the future, yet all he feels at the moment is ice-cold anger at the man he deemed his friend, as well as regret that his desk job doesn’t require carrying a gun. 

For now, however, handcuffs will have to suffice.

~*~

James ends up driving the Prime Minister to his meeting. 

Curiously, this is not the strangest thing he’s had to do in his career at MI6. 

“Really? Is there a list?”

James has to twist a little in his seat on the sofa to be able to see Q’s disbelieving expression since they’re pressed quite close to each other, thigh to shoulder, while they’re devouring takeaway. 

“Are you asking if I have a top five?”

“Top six, more like,” Q quips, then chuckles into his curry. 

James shoves him playfully, but drops the topic in favour of pointing out something else that’s been on his mind. Q’s smile morphs into a smirk halfway through his deliberations, prompting James to squint at him. 

“You’re way ahead of me, aren’t you?”

“Still that tone of surprise,” Q teases airily, setting his now empty carton onto the coffee table as his expression falters a bit. “I haven’t found much. If Mallory was indeed part of the Double-oh programme, there’s no actual record of it. Which is ridiculous,” Q grumbles, adjusting his glasses with a frustrated huff. “There’s one agent whose cover was blown during the Troubles, but no indication of what happened after that. It lines up with Mallory’s injury, though.”

James purses his lips. “Circumstantial.”

“But?”

“You heard him, too, Q,” James says, leaning forward. “He was a Double-oh, I’m certain.”

“Does that earn him your respect?”

“I already respect him.”

Q snorts, rearranging his legs on the sofa into a more comfortable position. “You tolerate him, James.”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh?”

James nods gravely as Q takes in his features. Whatever he sees seems to assuage him. The corners of his eyes crinkle as one side of his lips pulls into a half-smile. 

“Does that mean you’re actually going to behave now that you’re going to be a regular employee?”

“I’ll consider it,” James deadpans, then pulls Q into his lap in one fluid motion. “You know what might make me more amenable?” he murmurs against his lover’s lips. 

“We’re not defiling my office.”

James licks a path down Q’s neck, nibbling at the collarbone peaking out from underneath his shirt. Q must have felt his smirk against his skin, for the man pulls back and seeks James’s gaze. 

“No.”

James just grins and Q’s expression grows more resolute. 

“You’re not taking that as a bloody challenge, James.”

“Of course, darling.”

Q glares. James smirks. 

The moment is broken when Linux appears at James’s feet, and by the time he has the cat purring in his lap – the result of spending two days bribing her with catnip, toys, and top-shelf cat food – there’s more fondness than exasperation in Q’s eyes. 

Maybe being a teacher and will prove to be exciting after all.

~*~

The week following Tuesday’s discovery is the most chaotic political shambles Gareth has ever witnessed. 

It’s decided to keep the assassination attempt under wraps; yet arresting the director of MI5 for treason stirs up a media storm of its own. If Gareth never again has to lead a press conference that’s being broadcast live, it’ll be too soon. 

“But you did such a great job!” Eve gushes upon his return to his antechamber. It’s hard to tell whether she’s joking or not. 

“Why’s the weekend still two days away?”

His secretary smiles. “Because time progresses in a linear fashion, sir.”

“And you’ve been spending too much of it with our quartermaster,” Gareth grumbles without any heat. 

Despite the additional workload due to Arthur’s absence, he has kept his word to Eve and ensured everyone at the agency knows the winds that have been so harsh in the past few months are going to change for the better. He even spent the weekend at Bill’s, who insisted on putting him up for two nights. 

“So I can check you’re actually getting some sleep,” was his cheeky explanation, though Gareth found he didn’t mind the ambush. He has let his friendships slide for long enough already. 

“Oh, sir,” Eve stops him as he is about to enter his office. “Mrs Pryce is waiting in your office.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did she say why?”

“No, sir.”

Gareth finds the woman standing near the window, but she turns as the door clicks shut behind him. The corners of her lips betray the hint of a smile, which is rarely a good sign for Gareth’s sanity. 

“I’d really hoped we could return to scheduled visits now that the conference is over,” he remarks. 

“And deprive me of the joy of annoying you, Mallory?” 

Gareth fears for England. Nothing good can be the reason for Pryce’s jovial mood. 

“If I start growing bald, I know who’s to blame.”

“In that case I’d better invest in a good toupee if I were you,” Pryce says, “because we’re going to be spending a lot more time together.” 

“And why’s that?” he asks, even though he can wager an educated guess as to her response, the prospect churning his stomach. The expression on Pryce’s face is positively devious, almost as though she knows exactly what’s going through his head. 

“Since Millstone’s deputy failed to notice his superior’s involvement in the Securicor scandal, the Home Secretary decided not to promote the man.” 

Pryce pauses, though she needn’t have – Gareth has already inferred what she is about to say next. 

“I’m going to be the first female director of MI5. I look forward to working with you, M.”

 _In retrospect,_ Gareth thinks, _I really should’ve pushed her into the grave when I had the chance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun :) I’m so grateful for everyone’s positive feedback, folks – you’re the best! 
> 
> Cuddles from Linux and Turing for anyone spotting the ship from the DCU I snuck in?
> 
> PS: I wrote [another 00Q fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6098101/chapters/13978204). It just sort of happened?


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life escalated this past week, so this is later than intended. But alas, here it is, the final chapter! Once again, million thanks to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for her amazing brit-picking and beta services <3 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the ride so far, folks. Thanks so much to everyone who left kudos and especially to my lovely commenters – your feedback was incredibly motivational!

_**EPILOGUE** _

“And?” 

James arches an eyebrow at Yeun that clearly shouts, _‘Do I need to state the obvious?’_

The scientist groans, though the sound is muffled by the bulletproof vest he has buried his face in. 

James is currently wearing a shirt made of the same material, which has improved tremendously since Yeun's first attempt at replacing Kevlar with something better. However, the fabric is still too stiff to allow for sufficient range of motion when covering more of a man than a conventional Kevlar undershirt. 

“I can't make it any softer, James,” the man actually whines. For a bit James managed to forget he’s mostly surrounded by chaps in their twenties. “Sure you're not just being finicky?” 

“I couldn't even tie my shoe laces in this thing, let alone fend off an attacker. Either find a way to make it work or give up on knife-repellent attire.” 

Yeun hangs his head, radiating disappointment so severe that James pauses after extricating himself from the shirt. 

“Maybe try adjusting the joints,” he eventually suggests. “Treat it like an armour; disguise it as a fabric pattern. Might work.” 

The minion blinks. “Huh.” 

James can see the wheels inside his head turning and uses the reprieve to change back into his own, softer shirt and tie. He's buttoning his waistcoat when Yeun resurfaces with a wide grin, already unlocking his tablet and grabbing a pen to make notes. 

“That could totally work!” 

If the past five weeks have taught James anything, it's that you cannot stop a minion when a brainwave hits. Yeun could be lost to the world for up to twenty-four hours if past occurrences are anything to go by... But they have plans. 

“I can give your spot in my car to someone else,” James remarks nonchalantly. 

“What? Oh, no way I'm gonna miss Tess's birthday party! I've been waiting too long to hear Farid sing karaoke…” Yeun nods at his tablet. “I'll just spend the weekend on these.” 

James makes a note to steer clear of the kid on Monday. 

He returns to the main room, expecting Q to be at his workstation, but the only ones here at 6pm on a Friday are minions, including Roy and Tatsu who've been trying to develop smart drones that can evade being shot at. The plan is to integrate the software into BumbleBee and other expensive toys, in that hopefully prolonging their lifespan. 

While saving the PM secured the SIS more funds, it’s no bottomless pit as Wenham likes to point out. 

Tatsu, tall and perpetually in heels that make her almost tower over Rhys – James has been trying to bribe her into wearing higher ones just to see the look on the man’s face – catches sight of him and clackers across the room. 

“One more,” she says, and one corner of James’s mouth lifts. 

“I'm clocking off.” 

He has fixed work hours now. It's weird, but sometimes useful. 

“It’ll only take a minute, sir.”

Since Tatsu, like Roy, used to be MI-5 employees, they’re still rather hesitant to loosen up around him. James has found he enjoys how his reputation precedes him more than is probably socially acceptable, though as long as Q’s still the most arrogant member of the lot, he won’t worry. 

For now he accepts the laser gun Tatsu hands him, checks it, then whirls around when his ears pick up the soft hum of the almost silent prototype. This time it takes him twelve shots to take it down, which is a far cry from his initial record of one. 

The scientist looks content enough. “I’ve got good readings, thank you.”

“Let me guess – you’ll let them render over night, spend the weekend adjusting the software with Roy, and be back to bug me on Monday?”

“Uh, if you’re amenable, sir,” she stammers, though before James can wave off her concerns, Farid appears at his elbow. 

“He’s totally messing with you; really guv, how’s anyone still taking you seriously?”

James chuckles. “Where’s your overlord?”

Farid’s shoulders slump. “Still down at the workshop. Got a call two hours ago; some blokes from the committee wanna see what we’re spending all that money on, so Q’s finishing the wiring and stuff so Kurt can do his thing over the weekend.”

James makes a note to send pizza on Saturday, since the chances the minions are going to remember to feed themselves on their own during their overtime are slim to none. 

Sometimes he wonders how Q-Branch ever survived without him. 

He tells Farid to fetch the others and meet him at his own car before heading down to where Q is working on the new version of the three-million-pound prototype James sank in Rome. The quartermaster is lying on a creeper underneath the car, talking to himself as the occasional metallic _clonk_ fills the room. 

Past mistakes keep James from simply pulling at Q’s feet, as tempting as it is. After all, the first and only time he did ended in a lump on his lover’s head and a trip to medical, which is never fun, not even without the thrall of another mission on the horizon. 

“I can see your shoes, love,” Q calls out. “Just a sec…”

It’s more than one second, but once he emerges James is rewarded with the sight of a sweaty Q, hair a mess, a grease stain on his jaw, in a shirt that was white and clean that morning, sleeves rolled up. 

Q follows his scowl and arches an eyebrow. 

“You’re committing a crime against fashion,” James tells him. 

“Says the man who got rid of a body while wearing Tom Ford.”

“Not the same.”

“Well,” his partner sighs, accepting James’s hand and letting himself be pulled to his feet, “if it bothers you so much, get me an overall.”

James forgoes the quip at the tip of his tongue in favour of swiping it across Q’s bottom lip, carefully steering clear of the rest of his body, which earns him a chuckle.

“I take it you heard.”

“That you’re leaving me alone with your minions in a pub on karaoke night?”

“It’ll be more relaxed without me there,” Q points out, which James can’t dispute. As tightly knit as Q-Branch is, no one genuinely wants to get sloshed in the company of their boss. 

“You’re still joining us later?”

“Like I’d miss an opportunity to see you teach,” Q says after another soft kiss. “Though officially I’m only there to celebrate with Eve and Sam. Now go, or you’ll be late.”

James ruffles Q’s hair, which earns him an indignant “Oi!”, and leaves his partner to his tinkering.

~*~

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on submitting the cheque for this to Accounting.”

It’s five hours later and James just sent the eight trainees he’s trying to teach the art of seduction off to loosen up at the bar of the sophisticated club he chose. While joining Tess and her friends to celebrate the girl’s twenty-sixth birthday proved entertaining, watching nineteen nerds drinking their weight in tequila and singing karaoke is not James’s idea of a fun night. 

Pointing out the flaws in each trainee’s attire, on the other hand… 

James turns his head to where Eve is aiming a questioning gaze at him from the lush sofa across from him. 

“It’s a training exercise.”

“It’s you combining teaching with celebrating a friend’s achievement,” Eve shoots back, just as Sam returns from ordering champagne. 

“And said friend doesn’t mind,” the writer butts in, sliding up to his fiancée with a smile. 

After months of research and weeks of dealing with the FBI and the IRS-CI, the Internal Revenue Service Criminal Investigation Division, Sam’s journalistic investigation into corruption within the International Ice Hockey Federation finally concluded. James can’t say for sure what Eve is happier about – that her fiancé is finally back, or that the resulting article will adorn the front page of both tomorrow’s Guardian and The New York Times. 

He leaves Eve and Sam to their cuddling once they clinked glasses and joins the trainees. His is an eclectic bunch; some former military with others fresh from university, yet all filled with ideals and ideas of what awaits them in the mysterious world of espionage. 

Well, with one exception. 

“Will be getting started now, sir?” Preeta asks, her tone eager. 

Lattimer was very clear about not picking favourites. And James hasn’t. Some recruits are simply superior to the flock. 

James gives her a nod, then scans the room until he finds an appropriate candidate. He points out the feller to the tyros, then meets Preeta’s gaze. 

“Your mark. Let’s see how far you manage. You,” he tells the other seven. “Observe; be prepared to analyse.”

Frankly, James almost wrote the lass off when he first saw her among his students – too withdrawn and timid, her attire lacking the sophistication of her classmates. Yet there was something in her eyes he recognised: the similar dark glint only orphans share. Above all, he learned that Preeta is a survivor, and in that able to adapt to anything – even finding a home at the SIS. 

Preeta returns with the mark’s phone number and a grin. 

“Who can tell me why she didn’t push for more?” James directs at the others. 

“To avoid suspicion,” Derek volunteers. “The bloke’s nowhere near her league.”

James nods, then goes on to dissect the encounter before pairing everyone of with instructions to select marks for one another and find him when they’re all done. 

“Are you going to select one as well?”

The voice is familiar, the tone also. James smirks as he turns on the soles of his feet and rakes an appreciative gaze from Q’s shoes up the cotton of his trousers sitting on narrow hips to the fabric of his shirt that clings to Q’s slender frame in all the right places. 

“I might have someone in mind,” James drawls. 

“Well, you should add a pair of glasses; complete the teacher look.”

James steps up to his partner, close enough to feel his body heat. “Is this a new fetish?”

The corners of Q’s lips twitch. “You’re good with them.”

James inclines his head. 

“Though I’m afraid you’re going to have to teach them how to dance, love.”

He follows Q’s eyes to where Joshua’s attempt at seduction crashes in spectacular fashion – and he’s not alone in that predicament. James holds out his hand for Q’s.

“Oh no.”

“Darling?” James tries, aiming for his most charming smile. 

“Aw, how can you say no to that?” Eve cuts in, materialising next to them with Sam and their glasses. 

“Incessant practice,” is Q’s dry explanation. “Take Eve for a spin, will you?”

Eve smiles at the prospect and James is about to oblige, but the woman’s raised hand stops him. 

“In a bit,” she says. “First I’ve got a favour to ask.”

“For the last time, I’m not using my incredibly advanced skills to find out who bought which wedding gift off your registry,” Q grouses, and James finally slides an arm around his waist, pulling him close and kissing his temple. 

“You’re a terrible best friend,” Eve tells him. “But it’s not about that. I want the two of you to organise my hen night.”

The expression on Q’s face is priceless. 

“We’d love to,” James says, then smiles sweetly at his partner. “Wouldn’t we, darling?” 

“But –” Q tries, though Eve is already talking again. 

“Brilliant! We’ll have to coordinate with Sam’s best man, maybe get together about dates over the weekend.”

“I have to –”

“Dance!” Eve finishes. Her smile morphs into something of a fond glare that leaves Q blinking at her with his mouth agape and James suppressing a chuckle. “You didn’t step on the dance floor at my engagement party, but this is my wedding and my best friend is going to dance with his partner and enjoy it.”

Q sighs. “We’ve been over this.”

“I’m the bride – your opinion is invalid.”

“There’s already a tally,” James points out with a grin. 

“What?!” Q snaps. 

“Even I know about it,” Sam adds, somewhat apologetically. 

“Well, if my colleagues have time to place wagers on what I’m going to do in my free time, they’re obviously underworked. Time for a few general security checks and a complete system reboot, I reckon.”

James winces. “Let’s not blow this out of proportion.”

“You’ll find this funny in the morning,” Eve promises, presenting her arm to James. “Shall we?”

Q has begun quietly fuming next to him, so James takes a moment to pull him closer, turning him in one fluid motion until their chests are touching and he can kiss the scowl off his lover’s face. 

“Plying me with sex won’t work, James,” Q whispers against his lips. 

“Well, I’m sure I’ll find a better incentive.”

“You could stop trying to seduce me in my office.” 

James tilts his head a little in faux consideration. “Not worth it.” 

That makes Q pull back a little, green eyes widened in surprise. “You’d rather incur Eve’s wrath than give up chasing something that’s never going to happen?”

“Have you ever known me to give up on anything?” James murmurs in reply, stealing one more kiss until Q shoos him away to impress his students with his ability to make even a soon-to-be-married woman swoon to music.

~*~

In the end, his perseverance pays off. 

“Bloody hell! Fine!” Q gasps between a moan and a whimper as he pulls at the tie fixing his wrists to the headboard. 

James pulls off his lover’s erection with an obscene slurping sound. Even his lips feel sore, though he knows it’s nothing compared to what Q is experiencing at the moment. 

“Repeat that for me, will you?” James drawls, tightening his grip at the base of Q’s cock. 

“I’ll bloody dance with you!” A ragged breath. “Can I have my orgasm now?”

James laughs, and Q whines when his breath provides even more stimulation. They’ve been engaged in this battle of wills for almost three hours and Q’s chest is covered in a mess of sweat and James’s release. When he’s allowed to find his own, it wrecks the very last vestiges of Q’s self-control. 

He watches his lover fall apart at the touch of a tongue, and finds he can’t wait to have a reason to do this again. 

James has all the time in the world now, after all.

~*~

Mrs Pryce waves a dismissive hand. Half the gesture is outside the frame of the video feed, though the woman’s expression more than conveys the sentiment. 

“And the situation in South America?” Gareth probes. 

“Will still be a situation on Monday; 003 is good but she’s no miracle worker.” Pryce pauses, and Gareth makes to speak but she talks right over him. “Now get off this channel and take your secretary to the stylist. I assure you I’m more than capable of handling everything for one weekend, M.”

She’s right, of course. Gareth just doesn’t trust this calm. International incidents have a way of happening at the most inopportune moments. 

“Give my best to the soon-to-be Mrs Vázquez.”

“Oh, she’s keeping her name.”

“Good. Saves us paperwork,” is Pryce’s dry reply and Gareth chuckles. 

He finds Eve in his guest room, where she spent the night since both she and Sam agreed to keep things traditional and not see each other before the wedding. The fact that Eve asked him to put her up still warms his heart. It has taken some trial and error, but it seems their rapport hasn’t merely been restored, but improved tremendously. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. 

Eve nods with a smile that is positively glowing. “I can’t wait to have an army of stylists descend on me.”

“I doubt it’ll be an army.”

“Then you’ll be in for a surprise, Gareth.”

Her joyous mood is infectious, though there is an undercurrent of nerviness Gareth cannot shake, especially now that the moment has come to hand over his gift. 

“One more thing before we leave,” he says, producing the small, rectangular box from inside his breast pocket. 

“But you already signed off on two weeks holiday,” Eve protests. 

“That was my gift as your employer. This is personal.”

She hums thoughtfully, then pulls at the ribbon to loosen the bow Gareth spent more time tying than he’ll ever admit to. Wrapping parcels is definitely not his area of expertise. 

Eve lifts the key from the foam inside the box and inspects it with a crease in her brow. Gareth inhales deeply, glad he practised the explanation as often as he did. 

“This one is mostly symbolic; all necessary documents and the rest of the keys will be delivered to you and Sam upon your return form your honeymoon.”

“What do they open?”

“My family’s townhouse.”

Eve blinks and Gareth reckons it’s best to explain before he loses his nerve. 

“I have no use for it; five bedrooms, a terrace and a small garden… I can assure you from personal experience it’s a wonderful place to raise a child –”

“I can’t accept this.” Eve has found her voice again. “That house has been in your family for decades – it’s got to stay in the family.”

“Indeed,” Gareth says with finality.

The implications take a moment to register, but once they have Eve’s expression is caught between wonder and something he’s only ever seen glimpses of. This time, however, she seems to have decided to throw propriety out the window and closes the space between them. He lets her pull him into the hug without hesitation. 

“Thank you,” she breathes across his shoulder. Given her heels, they are the same height. 

“I heard you mention to Q that you and Sam have been looking.” 

The _‘and that you refused all your parents’ offers to buy you a house’_ goes unsaid, yet lingers between them anyway. 

“The levels of surveillance at the office are frightening, sir,” Eve quips. He only hears the slight wavering in her voice because he’s known her as long as he did. 

“We are an intelligence agency, after all,” he replies, aiming for a deadpan delivery, but he can’t keep the laughter from seeping into his tone. 

He doesn’t know how long they remain in the position, and as far as Gareth is concerned the embrace could go on forever. Yet Eve has a wedding to get to, and eventually pulls back. 

They share a smile in silent understanding.

~*~

The wedding itself takes place at the Decorium in North London. It used to be a public swimming pool before an extensive renovation, and Gareth witnessed how both Sam and Eve immediately fell in love with the peculiar venue. 

Once the ceremony is concluded, the several hundred guests spill into the Caesar Room for a brief reception before dinner in the larger Emperor Suite. 

Gareth sidesteps the champagne-bearing servers in favour of the open bar to get a drink for both himself an Navya, whose dress matches the blue extensions of her hair in a way that has already turned several heads, including that of 009 who – contrary to his initial intention – is not here with the head of Analytics. 

Hence the need for something stronger. 

Daryl Wenham seems to share the sentiment. The man drains his champagne flute while Gareth orders, before setting it down on the counter and signalling the barkeeper. 

“Vodka, on the rocks. And make it the good stuff,” he adds. 

“Everything all right?” Gareth asks, genuinely worried. Last time he checked Wenham and his superior had reached a quiet truce. 

“Spiffing,” Daryl says, though his tone is at odds with the word. “Got to make the most of the open bar today. Not like I’ll be able to afford this anymore.”

He waves at the top shelf in front of them. 

“I thought it was McCathy who was considering to resign,” Gareth probes, hoping the detail will catch Wenham’s attention – it’s not official yet, so only Pryce and Gareth are aware their head of Accounting is looking for another employer. 

It doesn’t register, however.

“Ultimatum ends today,” Daryl grumbles. 

Their drinks are ready, but Gareth doesn’t leave. “Ultimatum?”

Wenham’s eyes swivel to him, probably to see if he’s genuinely curious or merely being polite. 

“Yeah. My mother’s brilliant idea. Either I’m to find a husband or my folks will cut me off.”

“Are they serious?”

“As serious as my hangover’s gonna be tomorrow,” Daryl confirms, raising his tumbler and taking a large sip. “Good thing I don’t have to be at w-” he says after grimacing at the burn, though he freezes abruptly. “Hang on. That hag-”

Gareth cocks and eyebrow. 

“I mean, uh, my aunt’s quitting?”

Gareth doesn’t reiterate, yet his smile as he takes up the two glasses still waiting on the counter says it all. 

“Enjoy the party, Mr Wenham.”

By the looks of it, the man does. If only Gareth were able to cheer up Navya that easily, but unfortunately that ability is currently limited to Rhys. The Double-oh is sitting next to Bond and Q during dinner, sharing a table with select minions and the groom’s closest friends. 

Gareth, along with Bill and Michonne, suffers through the politicking forced upon him by Eve’s parents, and almost weeps from joy when the newlyweds move to open the dance floor. 

“I’m feeling very lucky,” Bill murmurs as the party gathers around Eve and Sam. The former is a vision in her simple but elegant dress, even Gareth can attest to that. 

“I hope you haven’t made reservations yet,” Gareth replies with a smirk.

Both Bond and Q, as well as Rhys are in their line of sight across the circle that has formed around the dancing couple, and Gareth notices his chief of staff and himself aren’t the only ones glancing to their quartermaster from time to time. 

“Just how many wagers do you think are in place today?” Gareth wonders, more to himself than to either Bill or Navya, whose posture is still rigid. 

It’s probably for the better that neither of them volunteers an estimate. 

Eve’s parents are the first to join into the dancing, and soon a handful of others brave the floor. Gareth notices Rhys seizing the moment to navigate the crowd after a pat on the back from Bond and squares his shoulders pre-emptively. 

He needn’t have worried. 

“May I have this dance?” the Double-oh asks, holding out his hand to Navya. 

Her lips are a thin line. “Are you sure you want to dance with someone who used to have a penis?”

Gareth barely contains a laugh at the way Rhys’s features derail for a moment, but he composes himself quickly and turns pleading eyes on Navya, who crumbles and follows the man into the crowd. 

A smug chuckle from Bill draws his attention. 

It only takes a slit second to see what prompted it: Bond and Q, looking like they just stepped out of a glossy magazine in their complementary suits – that is, if it weren’t for the perpetual mess of Q’s hair – are the newest addition to the moving masses. 

_Bugger._

“We’ll be leaving Friday afternoon,” Bill tells him. “Michonne and I have a massage scheduled. Be sure to practise doing the voices for the bedtime stories.”

“Usually our quartermaster is made of sterner stuff than this,” he grouses. Somehow the necessary heat just won’t seep into the statement, however. 

“Never underestimate Bond’s ability to defy the odds, Gareth.”

When Gareth huffs in defeat, his best friend holds out his arm to Michonne who seems to find their bickering incredibly entertaining. 

Eve and Sam are still dancing together, which surprises Gareth somewhat, yet a quick sweep of the room shows that Eve’s father is currently engaged in a conversation with some MP or other, entirely unconcerned about taking over for his daughter’s husband. 

Gareth’s legs make the decision for him and moments later he finds himself next to the bride and groom. 

“Mind if I cut in?” 

Sam’s eyes dart first to Eve, then to where Mr Moneypenny isn’t paying attention, and back to his wife. An entire conversation passes between them that Gareth has no chance to translate, though a second later Sam steps back with a soft smile that is mirrored on Eve’s face, which is all that matters. 

They don’t talk for several beats, letting the moment stretch. It’s been a long time since Gareth last danced, but he doubts anything could ever make him forget the lessons from his childhood. Eve’s smile turns coy as he twirls her. 

“Showing off because you lost that wager?” 

“My pride will never recover,” he says with gravitas, yet Eve’s responding giggle makes his lips twitch. “You’re happy.”

It’s somewhere between question and statement, loaded with all the ghosts that have plagued them the past few months. He can see their shadows in Eve’s eyes, but her “yes” is as heartfelt as he could ever hope for. 

Before either of them can say anything else, Bond and Q materialise next to them. 

“Here they are, James, now release me!” 

The younger man was probably aiming for an order, though it sounds more like a petulant whine. 

“Want to stomp your foot with that, love?” Bond teases, earning him a scowl from Q and a laugh from Eve. 

Bond kisses the sour expression off his partner’s face before formally asking to kidnap Eve. Gareth watches them glide away as he and Q clear the floor. Not for the first time he’s utterly glad that Q isn’t a person who needs to fill silences with pointless chatter. 

Gareth spares a thought for his father, just one. Tristan Mallory would surely turn in his grave if he knew his son signed their house over to someone not related to them by blood, and once upon a time Gareth would never have imagined anyone other than him raising children in the estate. 

Well. Tristan Mallory knew bugger all about family. 

Gareth is glad he finally found his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe this is done! *cheers* What a journey! And it’s not the end, I’m glad to announce. I wrote another oneshot, a prompt fill for the 00Q prompt party, and I’m really, really happy with it, so I hope you’ll be back for more. 
> 
> Anyway, I live off air and feedback, and yours always makes my day! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this fic, if you’re so inclined.


End file.
